


In the Still of the Night

by BlueLonghand



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2018-10-24 13:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 77
Words: 146,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10742322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueLonghand/pseuds/BlueLonghand
Summary: One unexpected afternoon, Betty and Jughead shared "a moment." Now, she's having nightmares, and turns to him for comfort. But as their relationship grows closer, their friendships with Archie are threatened.Multi-chapter story, begins at S1 episode 8 and conforms (mostly) to canon through the end of S1/chapter 37. Original from that point forward.Most of the story is rated T. Chapters 36 and 38 are flirting with the borderline of a "mature" rating. Chapters 48, 49 and 59 are basically smut, so definitely mature. I'm reluctant to change the rating of the whole story for those aberrations -- which can be skipped without losing an excessive amount of plot or character development -- but please use judgment in determining whether those chapters are right for you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** My first ever fanfiction! I'm having loads of fun, but know I have a lot to learn.
> 
>  **Dislaimer:** I do not own the characters or settings from either Riverdale or the Archie Comics. All I own is the chattering brain that keeps filling in the conversations that I think _should_ have happened, but didn't, on the show. I will not profit in any way from these stories, except by learning from any feedback other writers may offer.

### Chapter 1

“Are you up?”

The incoming text lit up the screen of Jughead Jones’ battered, second-hand phone, casting a faint glow in the darkened bedroom he was currently sharing with Archie Andrews and making him smile. Only Betty Cooper would send him a late-night text with flawless spelling; he’d have known the message was from her, even without her name displayed across the top of his screen, just above the spiderweb crack that had brought the phone into his price range.

“Sure,” he answered quickly. “What’s up?”

“Can you come over?”

Jughead paused a moment, glancing at Archie’s alarm clock. 11:16 p.m. Not ridiculously late, but late enough on a school night to make the request surprising. Archie had been breathing heavily for a good 20 minutes already. Betty’s bedroom light had gone out almost an hour ago – not that he’d been watching, of course. And Jughead couldn’t imagine Mama Cooper would welcome him with open arms if he arrived on the front porch close to midnight.

On the other hand, he _was _up. And, admittedly, curious about Betty’s unprecedented request for an after-dark visit. Not to mention, of course, that going to see Betty sounded a hell of a lot better than lying here on a sagging air mattress, staring at the ceiling and listening to Archie’s even breathing while trying to ignore the somewhat oppressive atmosphere of laundry that had passed its “best before” date several days earlier.__

____

“On my way. Door?” he typed, even as he rolled off the mattress and scuffed his feet into the flip flops that had served as shower shoes during his brief residence under the stairs at Riverdale High, and that now functioned as bedroom slippers.

____

It was a stupid question, actually. He knew enough about Betty’s parents to be fairly certain she wasn’t inviting him to waltz up to the front door and ring the bell at this hour of the night.

____

Sure enough, before he even made it to Archie’s bedroom door, Betty’s unambiguous reply came back.

____

“Window!!!”

____

He smiled again as he crept down the Andrews’ stairs, taking care to avoid the creaky tread on the third step from the bottom. He could just picture Betty’s trademark ponytail swinging emphatically as she pounded out those extra exclamation points.

____

He eased the back door open and closed it softly behind himself. The fall night was cool, but not yet cold. The grass was still wet from the rain that had drizzled down sullenly all day, but the sky was clear now, the moon almost full and lighting his way as he padded across the lawn to the house next door.

____

It took only a moment to locate the ladder he’d used on a previous occasion, now leaning against the Cooper’s detached garage. Another moment, and it was leaning against the house beneath Betty’s window.

____

Wet flip flops, he reflected wryly, were not ideally suited to climbing ladders in the dark, even with a solid beam of moonlight to help him navigate. But he’d risk a lot more than a fall of a few feet, in order to be there for Betty if she needed him. And his curiosity was now tinged with just a bit of concern as he reflected on the oddness of this request. Betty had a lot on her plate these days, and if she needed a shoulder to cry on… or one of his kidneys, for that matter… he wasn’t about to let her down.

____

He’d planned to tap on the glass as he had during his previous visit to this window, just a few days ago, but as soon as he neared the top of the ladder, the window sash slid up.

____

“Hey there, Juliet,” he said as he stepped over the windowsill and into her room. It was an echo from his last visit, a fleeting moment in time that had altered his world in ways he hadn’t even begun to process yet. Until he’d climbed the ladder into this room, no one had touched him in months. No hugs, no pats on the back. He wasn’t sure anyone had connected with him physically in any way since his mom grabbed Jellybean and left town, and that was more than six months ago. Yet in one moment of insanity, he’d reached out and kissed Betty Cooper… and everything had changed. He’d been bathed in her touch since that moment. She held his hand when they walked together, leaned into him when they sat side-by-side in a booth at Pop’s or on the couch in the student lounge. She touched his hand or his shoulder when they talked together, pressed her forehead to his to reassure him when things got hard. And in just a few short days, those fleeting moments of contact had become more real, more essential, than anything else in his life.

____

But, as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light in Betty’s room, away from the dazzle of moonlight on wet ground, his reminiscent smile faded.

____

At any other time, his attention might have been captured by the thin, white cotton nightgown she was wearing, sweet and delicate-looking, but covering far less of her than her usual jeans and blouses and sweaters. Tonight, though, he scarcely registered her bare arms and legs beneath the lace edging of her nightie.

____

Betty was crying. No, scratch that. Betty was full-on distraught. Her eyes were huge and haunted, red-rimmed in her pale face. Her breath was coming in short gasps and sobs. And she was shaking, her whole body trembling like aspen leaves in a cold wind.

____

__“Hey,” he repeated softly, all teasing gone from his tone, every thought fleeing save for one. She needed him.__


	2. Chapter 2

### Chapter 2

“Hey,” Jughead whispered. He took a step towards her, opening his arms, and Betty walked straight into them, clinging to him as the sobs she’d been fighting to control broke loose, wracking her body. She was so tired… tired of trying to be strong… tired of trying to smile when she wanted to scream... tired of trying to live up to her parents’ impossible expectations… tired of feeling so relentlessly alone, no matter who she was with.

She had no idea how long it lasted, that timeless interval as she clung to Jughead and sobbed out her terror and grief in the unexpected strength of his arms. She only knew that the shelter he offered felt more necessary to her than oxygen in that moment.

At last, her sobs began to fade, leaving her calm, but still shaking with the exhaustion of aftermath. She reached up self-consciously to scrub at the tears still flowing from her swollen eyes, but Jughead caught her hand and drew her down to sit beside him on the edge of her bed.

“Better?” he asked her, and she felt a small curl of satisfaction deep inside her as he set his arm about her waist and she leaned against him, nestling into the protection of his embrace.

“No,” she answered, then stopped herself. “Yes,” she amended, then stopped again. Jughead said nothing, just waited. Eventually, she heaved a sigh and started again.

“I’m ok, but I’m not. I’m not hurt, or sick, or in any danger. And it feels better having you here,” he smiled fleetingly as she continued. “But I’m still terrified. I just had a bad dream. And I know it’s stupid – it’s just a dream! It’s not real. But it _feels_ real, and it’s really messing with me.” She stopped again, not sure how to continue when she was sure what she was saying didn’t make any sense, afraid Jughead would laugh or be disgusted with her – who called for backup because of a bad dream?

“Do you want to tell me about it?” was all he said.

“It’s crazy,” Betty answered. But what was really crazy was that she _did_ … want to tell him, that is. “It doesn’t even make sense, and I don’t know why I’m so upset, and…” even to her own ears, her voice was rising, becoming shrill, increasing the risk of discovery by her parents. Jughead bent his head, kissing her quickly, and her voice trailed off.

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” he reassured her. “Just tell me.”

Inexplicably calmed by his invitation, Betty drew a deep breath. She didn’t want to revisit the dark visions that had plagued her sleep tonight. But she didn’t want to carry them alone, either.

“It was… Polly,” she began slowly, groping for words that could capture the intensity of her dream, fighting to overcome the fear that retelling it would make it more real. “I saw Polly, and it was almost time for her babies to come. She was so beautiful, and so happy…” her voice trailed off as she remembered for a moment the glow of her sister’s face, the almost achingly beautiful expression of expectation.

Jughead didn’t interrupt her, or prompt her. He just waited.

“And then that Blossom grandmother came,” Betty continued, her voice hardening. “You remember the really creepy old lady who found us in Jason’s bedroom at the memorial?” She hardly waited for his nod of confirmation before continuing. “She greeted Polly, just like she did me that afternoon. ‘So lovely to see you again my dear.’ And then she stabbed her, straight in the belly, with one of those spigots they use to tap maple trees. Only instead of maple sap, Polly’s blood started pouring out of her, and she started to scream in pain.” She paused again, lost for a moment in the horror of her sister’s screams, but again, Jughead gave her the time she needed, waiting , silent and steady, for her to go on.

“And then my mom and dad came, and I thought they were going to help Polly,” Betty continued at last. “But they didn’t. Mom held Polly down on this table, and then she tied her down, and held her hands over Polly’s mouth. And Polly was still bleeding and screaming, only I couldn’t hear her screams anymore, because Mom was muffling them with her hands.

“And then my mom looked at my dad and said, ‘It has to happen, Hal. She has to be stopped.’ And Dad stepped forward, and he started to cut the babies out of Polly’s belly.” Betty was crying again now, tears pouring down her face, but instead of hesitating, the words were pouring out of her even more quickly than her tears. Suddenly, she felt she had to spill it all out, to get free from it.

“He cut the first baby out, and he turned and handed it to me, and I was so happy to think the baby was ok. But when I looked down into my arms, it wasn’t a baby at all. It was Jason. His body. The way Moose and Kevin found it at the river that night… decomposing, with a bullet hole in his head. And I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. And I tried to put it down, but I couldn’t. And even though Polly couldn’t speak through Mom’s hands, she looked at me so hopefully, like she wanted me to tell her that her baby was ok.

“And before I could do anything or even think what to say if my voice came back, Dad cut the other baby out. I couldn’t see it; he blocked me with his body, and he wrapped it in a blanket, and handed the bundle to that weird Blossom grandmother. And Polly was crying, because she wanted her baby. But then Cheryl came and took hold of the grandmother’s wheelchair, and just wheeled her and the baby away.

“It doesn’t take long to tell it,” Betty concluded, drawing a shuddering breath and trying to sound matter-of-fact, “but it felt like it went on for hours, watching Mom and Dad and the Blossoms tear Polly apart.” Her tears were coming faster now. “It’s stupid, right?”

“Absolutely,” Jughead agreed, drawing her more tightly into his embrace and planting a kiss on her hair, “if by ‘stupid,’ you mean ‘completely chilling and likely to keep me awake at nights for the rest of my natural life,’ then it's definitely stupid.” He kissed her again before adding, “Quit beating yourself up. _You_ may know it was just a dream, but your amygdala doesn’t, and it’s pumped up your body and emotions exactly as if it really happened. That’s not stupid… it’s science.”

“Hell,” he added with a half laugh. “I’m feeling shaky just from hearing the highlights. So cut yourself some slack, Betty. It’s ok to be scared.”

They sat in silence a few minutes, Jughead tracing slow circles on Betty’s back with his hand. Gradually, his gentle patience began to work its magic. She felt her tense muscles relaxing, her shaking quelled as she sank more deeply into his quiet support. And she felt the full weight of her fatigue – days of work and worry, and a night of profoundly unsettling dreams – pressing down upon her. She yawned deeply.

“You must be exhausted,” Jughead whispered. “I’m exhausted, just from hearing about your creepy Blossom visitation. You should get some rest.”

“I’m afraid to,” Betty admitted. “I feel like all that… ugliness is still lurking somewhere in my mind, just waiting for me… like if I fall asleep, it will all come back.” She hesitated, biting her lip. But this was Jughead, the boy who’d somehow become the person she trusted most in the world. If she couldn’t be honest about what she wanted, alone with him, when could she?

“Will you stay?” she asked quietly. “I feel safe when you’re with me. And I really need to feel safe right now.” For just a moment, she felt Jughead stiffen beside her. The silence stretched, making her wonder if she was asking too much. She was just about to start backpedalling when he said “Of course.”

Betty smoothed the covers on her bed, tangled from her restless night, and folded them down as Jughead slipped his feet out of his flip flops and turned to lie down on her bed. 

It should have felt awkward. The bed was narrow, and she’d never shared it with anyone other than Polly on rare, sleepover nights in the long-ago past.

But it didn’t feel awkward. Not at all, in fact. Jughead lay back, and she curled into his side, her head fitting perfectly into the hollow of his chest, just beneath his shoulder, taking comfort in the gentle movement of his breath.

Almost immediately, she felt sleep overtaking her. And it didn’t feel awkward at all.

It felt like home.


	3. Chapter 3

### Chapter 3

The sky was just beginning to lighten, sunrise still several minutes away, when Jughead’s eyes popped open. For a moment, he lay perfectly still, savouring the single most exquisite moment of his existence up to this point.

Betty’s bed, though small, represented a significant upgrade from the leaky air mattress on Archie’s floor… despite the fact that the said leaky mattress was, hands-down, the safest and most comfortable place he’d slept in months. Betty’s room was comfortable, clean and spacious and, to all appearances, not frequented by any of the visitors – arachnid, rodent, or insect – that had shared his living spaces until he moved in with the Andrews men a few days ago.

But none of these undeniable facts even began to account for the sheer, breathtaking perfection of the moment Jughead found himself in as he woke.

That was entirely the doing of the other occupant of this bed.

She’d slept the whole night with her head cradled on his chest, his arm around her, her body curled into his. Sometime in the night, she’d thrown one leg across both of his, fitting them even more perfectly together.

Arousing? Yes

Absolutely.

Without question.

More than any other experience of his life.

But that wasn’t what struck Jughead most. Far more than the erotic promise of Betty’s body, wrapped so tightly around his, was the almost palpable feeling of peace, of belonging… of home.

He wanted nothing more than to stay exactly as he was for the rest of his earthly life. If he lived another thousand years, he knew he’d never grow tired of the warm whisper of Betty’s breath against his chest, the weight of her against his body.

But he couldn’t stay. Reluctant as he was to move from this paradise he’d found, undeserved, unexpected…

… he was even more reluctant to be found here by the Cooper parents. Their anger and disapproval, he could deal with – regretfully, but very capably. What he couldn’t face was having this moment tarnished, turned sordid and shameful under their eyes.

And so, he took another moment to drink in every element, every sensation of this too-brief glimpse of heaven. And then, reluctantly, regretfully, he began to untangle himself from Betty’s sleeping form.

The first fingers of sunrise were just gilding the world when he leaned the stepladder back against the Coopers’ garage, where it could tell no tales and raise no questions, and crept soundlessly back into Archie’s house.

***

Betty woke with a smile on her face, rested and refreshed in a way she wouldn’t have imagined possible in the small hours of the night. She had slept deeply, restfully, and the golden sunlight that bathed the room as she opened her eyes felt like a benediction. She stretched langorously, basking in a deep sense of well-being, then sat bolt upright as memory returned

Jughead! He’d been here… hadn’t he?

For a moment, the sunlight seemed to dim as her frantic gaze scanned the room and confirmed she was alone. Her heartrate slowed, though, her smile returning as she glanced down and noticed two things: her phone, in the exact middle of the dented pillow beside her – decidedly not where she had left it last night – and, clutched loosely in her right hand, a soft, grey, knitted object that she recognized immediately.

She slipped Jughead’s crown beanie onto her own head before tapping the screen of her phone to bring it to life. Sure enough, he’d left her a message.

“Cooper,” she read. “Can’t imagine my presence would make Mama’s day, so heading out. Walk me to school?”

A rattling at her door startled her, giving her the bare minimum of warning. She just managed to stash the beanie and her phone under her pillow before Alice Cooper barged into her room, a stack of folded laundry in her hands.

“Still in bed, Betty?” her mother chirped with brittle sweetness as she began opening drawers and putting away laundry. “Better hop to it. We can’t have people thinking you’re as unfocused and out-of-control as Polly.”

“No, Mom,” Betty answered dryly as she stepped out of bed. “We can’t have that.”

***

She was wearing his beanie.

Jughead paused on the Andrews’ porch, his heart twisting oddly inside his chest, as he stared at Betty, perched on the gate in front of her house. She’d chosen a grey pullover this morning – to coordinate with his beanie? – and the crisp white points of her collar lay neatly over its round neckline. Jeans, sneakers… the whole outfit was classic Betty Cooper. But she’d topped it off with his beanie, and somehow, that made it completely new.

It was a little big on her, so the brim framed her face closely, and only the curly bottom of her ponytail was visible beneath the brim in back.

She looked adorable.

Hitching his backpack up on his shoulder, Jughead stepped off the porch and approached her.

“Well, aren’t you a vision?” he said, as he drew closer, before leaning in to brush her lips with his and whispering “Who know that ol’ hat could look so good?”

She smiled up at him even as she slid off the gatepost to stand, facing him, just a little closer than she would have stood before this week. Before she could answer, though, the Andrews’ screen door banged shut again and Archie clattered down the steps toward them.

“’Morning, guys!” he called as he approached. Jughead could tell the exact moment when he noticed what Betty was wearing. His lips tightened slightly, chilling the warmth of his smile.

“Nice hat, Betts,” he added, but it sounded almost accusatory.

“Thanks,” she answered uncertainly, her smile a few watts short of its usual, blinding power. She was obviously confused by Archie’s tone. But then she turned towards Jughead and for him, her smile was radiant.

“I didn’t want to forget to give it to you,” she explained, “plus, I was curious.”

“Curious?” he answered, returning her smile and ignoring Archie’s disapproving presence in the background. He recognized the teasing light in her eyes, and couldn’t wait to hear what she’d say next.

“Sure,” she answered. “I’ve never worn a crown before! I thought I’d give it a try.”

“Well, it suits you,” he told her honestly. That hat was his favourite thing he owned. He’d felt bereft when he’d dressed this morning, and realized he’d left it behind. The feeling of almost-nakedness lasted right up until he saw her wearing it. Now… he didn’t much care if he ever got it back, so long as he had a front-row seat to see her wearing it instead.

She blushed – actually blushed, like a heroine in some novel from another era – and cast him a sideways glance that caused his heart to lurch oddly again.

Before either of them could speak, though, Archie broke in again, his tone impatient. “C’mon, give him the hat, Betts, so we can get going. Don’t want to be late.”

Asshole, Jughead thought, seeing Betty flinch again at Archie’s tone. Dude was _not_ in a cheery, good-morning frame of mind. And as Betty reached up sheepishly to remove the hat, Jughead reached out impulsively and grabbed her hand before it could reach its objective. “Or,” he said, dipping his head a bit to catch Betty’s eye, “ _you_ could wear it today.”

Great, now he could feel _himself_ blushing, as both Betty and Archie stared at him in surprise. Did they really think he was some toddler who couldn’t get through the day without his security blankie? Not to mention that waiting for Betty’s answer was making him feel pretty damned vulnerable… as if he were missing a whole lot more than his hat.

“Really, Juggie?” Betty asked.

“Sure,” he answered, striving for a casual tone… one that would mask the fact that he was strangling for breath. “Let’s be honest, it looks better on you anyway.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Archie sputtered, “don’t be ridiculous! You can’t wear Jughead’s beanie to school, Betty! It’s like… his version of a letterman’s jacket! If you wear it, everyone will think you’re his girlfriend or something.”

And there it was – the label they’d been dancing around for days now, ever since Veronica had mentioned it in the student lounge at Riverdale High. Since before that, even, if he were being honest.

Should he make a joke or sardonic comment? Backpedal somehow? Man up and own it? Because for a guy who generally counted himself as a conscientious objector against all tidy labels and social norms, Jughead wanted pretty desperately to be Betty’s boyfriend, to have some sense that he mattered to her, even a fraction as much as she mattered to him.

But before he could even decide what to do, Betty took the moment right out of his hands.

“Would that be so terrible?” she asked. Her words were an answer to Archie’s comment, but her eyes were fixed with laser focus on Jughead, and their expression was so open, so sweetly vulnerable, that his heart broke a little, even as he felt its old cracks being bonded together with pure gold.

“No,” he answered, shaking his head, but never taking his eyes off Betty’s. “It wouldn’t be terrible at all.” And, ignoring Archie’s exasperated huff behind him, he held out his hand to Betty, smiling again – when in his life had he _ever_ smiled so much? – as she laced her fingers through his and set off towards school.

Betty Cooper was his girlfriend.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a very different chapter 4 planned and written, but episode 10 kind of blew it out of the water. I wrote this chapter, and chapter 5, to bridge the gap between Jughead's party and where I actually wanted the story to go.

### Chapter 4

As it turned out, having a girlfriend wasn’t quite as uncomplicated as pop culture made it appear, Jughead reflected ruefully as he sat next to his girlfriend in a booth at Pop’s, holding a napkin to his bleeding cheek. The past couple of weeks had been blissful – apart from homelessness, a murder investigation, and the mind-numbing brutality of high school – but tonight had been… difficult… infuriating… occasionally terrifying… and it wasn’t over yet. 

“Something is very, very wrong with me,” Betty confessed now, her voice breaking slightly. She was trying to explain why she’d organized a birthday party for him, a stupendously misguided idea that had gone even more stupendously awry. “There’s this darkness in me that’s overwhelming sometimes and… I don’t know where it comes from, but I think… that’s what makes me do these crazy things, like…” her voice trailed off, and she hesitated, searching Jughead’s eyes. Then, almost in slow motion, she wordlessly opened her hands, showing him the pattern of deep, crescent shaped gouges across both palms, marks of where she’d driven her nails into her own hands until she drew blood.

Jughead’s heart broke just a little as he looked from her ravaged palms to the bleakness in her eyes. He hadn’t known… had had no idea, in fact… that she was hurting so deeply. He knew, of course, that her family was crazy. And he knew there was way more to her than the squeaky clean image that met the eye – they wouldn’t even be friends, much less dating – if he thought the perfect, straight “A” cheerleader went more than skin deep. But he’d somehow missed her desperation. It was ironic, really, given that he knew a thing or two about desperation himself.

He couldn’t speak for fear he might cry, flooded by a tide of emotions – confusion and rage and grief and, suffusing it all, an overwhelming tenderness. At a loss for words, he cradled her battered hands between his own, lifting them to his lips for a gentle kiss, wishing he could take away all her hurts… not just her hands, but the pain inside that pushed her so relentlessly.

Then Betty leaned in and kissed his lips before snuggling against his shoulder, and the sweetness of the moment stole his breath. She wasn’t perfect, and neither was he… yet with everything they’d been through tonight… over these past weeks, really, here they were… together.

“That ladder’s still leaning against our garage,” Betty commented, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. Jughead leaned back a little to look in her eyes. “Mom keeps nagging Dad to put it away for the winter, but there it still is. I doubt he's going to come over from the _Register_ office to move it now.” She hesitated, took a deep breath, then looked back at him as intently as he was gazing at her. “I’ve never slept as well as I did the night you came and stayed with me after my nightmare. I know tonight’s been weird, but I really don’t want to be alone right now. Stay with me?”

His answer was a foregone conclusion. He couldn’t deny her anything.

***

Once again, Jughead found himself creeping back into the Andrews’ house at dawn. After dawn, truth be told; time had gotten away from him, and the sun was already up. He’d been awake early, had promised himself again and again that he’d leave in five minutes… at first light… in another 5 minutes… 

But Betty had been warm and soft in his arms, her golden hair taking on a thousand burnished tints in the light of sunrise…

So here he was, creeping into a sunlit kitchen and crossing his fingers that no one else would be there. He eased open the back door and stepped inside, finding that the kitchen was mercifully empty, but significantly the worse for last night’s party. He’d help Archie tackle the mess later, he promised himself. For now… coffee. If he tried to sneak back into Archie’s room at this stage in the morning, he might find him awake, which could lead to complications. So when his coffee was ready, he took it to the living room and settled into Fred’s favourite armchair to enjoy it.

Before he could even take his first sip, though, Veronica came tip-toeing down the stairs, shoes in hand.

“Veronica!” he sat forward in his chair, startled upright by her unexpected appearance. “Hey… good morning.”

“Good morning, Jughead,” she answered. And then they stared at each other for an awkward moment before both beginning to laugh. He couldn’t begin to guess why she was laughing – sheer nervousness seemed as likely an explanation as any – but for his own part, it was pretty damned funny to find her sneaking away from, he had to assume, Archie’s room, mere moments after he himself had returned from Betty’s.

“So, listen…” Veronica began.

“Don’t worry,” Jughead interrupted her. “My lips are sealed.” And he meant it. He didn’t want anyone knowing or guessing about his own nights with Betty; he figured Veronica and Archie deserved the same privacy.

He heard the front door click shut behind Veronica, even as the thought of Betty erased the reluctant smile from his face. He’d just promised he wouldn’t tell anyone about seeing Veronica leaving Archie’s house this morning. But mere hours ago, as they lay down together in her bed, he and Betty had promised each other no more secrets.

How the hell was he supposed to keep both those promises?


	5. Chapter 5

### Chapter 5

“Are you up?”

It was the night after Jughead’s disastrous birthday party, and Jughead was once again lying on the leaky air mattress on Archie’s floor, listening to his old friend’s steady breathing. Betty’s text flickering across his phone’s screen brought a smile to his face, reminding him of another night, just a few weeks ago, when she’d texted him the very same question.

“Sure,” he answered now, as he had then. “What’s up?” He was already out of bed and stepping into his flip flops when her reply came.

“Come over?”

He didn’t bother answering. He’d be there in person almost as quickly as he could text a reply anyway. And he’d been lying awake, half hoping for an invitation just like this.

But as he slipped across the lawn towards the Cooper’s house, he felt an anxiety that wasn’t usually a part of his feelings about time with Betty. He’d promised her no more secrets, but he’d also promised both Veronica and now Archie that he’d keep theirs. He still hadn’t worked out what he was going to do about that.

Not to mention the fact that he’d said some pretty awful things to Betty last night. He’d apologized, as she had, and they’d forgiven each other. But that didn’t mean she might not still be hurting over some of his more vicious accusations. God knew, he was still feeling pretty bruised and betrayed himself.

And yet, hurting and anxious and guilty and still half angry… there was no place he wanted to be more than with Betty.

She was waiting for him when he reached her window, and walked straight into his arms as soon as he made it into the room. She stayed there a long moment, her head on his shoulder, her arms around his waist, either giving or receiving comfort… maybe both.

“Thanks for coming,” she said as she finally stepped back.

Leaving him a clear view of a stack of gifts wrapped in garishly coloured birthday wrapping paper, and a helium balloon in the shape of a crown. His heart sank. This was so not going to help right now.

“Oh, come on, Betty,” he moaned, little more than a breath. “Seriously? Last night wasn’t bad enough?”

She flinched a little, but stood her ground. 

“Just listen, Juggie. I screwed up last night. I get that… and I get that I screwed up even before that by not telling you about Chuck and… all kinds of things.

“I screwed up because I didn’t trust you to accept the parts of me that scare me, or disgust me… the ones I can’t accept myself. So I kept secrets and planned a party and baked a cake as a way of hiding. And that was totally unfair of me. I got upset with you for not telling me your Dad was a Serpent, for not trusting me with that. And I was doing the very same thing to you.”

“So… you’re overcompensating with a million presents?” Jughead broke in incredulously, his disappointment bitter in his own mouth.

“Look, just open this one,” said Betty, ignoring his accusatory tone and handing him the top package from the pile.

“This is,” Jughead began, his heart sinking even further. He did not want to open that package and see whatever stupid thing Betty thought could buy a solution.

“Open it,” she repeated firmly, and he obeyed. Tearing away the colourful paper he found… a book. A book with a pale pink cover, unmarked and untitled. At first, he was confused. Then, the ashes seemed to dissolve from his mouth and a tingle began at the base of his spine as he opened the book and found page after page of handwriting… Betty’s handwriting.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed, overwhelmed. “It’s your…” he trailed off, afraid he’d misunderstood, afraid to say it out loud.

“It’s my diary,” Betty confirmed. “My _diaries_ , actually,” she indicated the pile behind her. “There are dozens of them, going all the way back to when I first learned to write. It’s all here, Juggie. All my thoughts, my feelings and fears, my secrets. That’s what I want to give you.

“Not that I expect you to read it all,” she added hastily when he was silent just a moment too long. “I mean, there’s thousands and thousands of pages here, and it’s not like I think you don’t have better things to do , and maybe it’s really narcissistic to think you’d even be interested, but I just don’t want to hold anything back from you anymore…“ she trailed off helplessly, he cheeks flushed with miserable colour, and Jughead desperately wanted to reassure her. But he couldn’t squeeze a sound past the lump in his throat, and his eyes were burning, and he resorted to pulling her back into his arms for a crushing hug before tipping back her face and kissing her deeply, desperately… he all but devoured her.

At last, he surfaced for air, still reeling from the magnitude of her gift, or her trust in him.

“That,” he said, his voice still shaky, “is the best gift anyone has ever given me, Betty. Ever.” Striving to lighten the atmosphere, he added, in something approaching his usual, detached tone “It _almost_ makes up for that kegger last night.”

Betty laughed and slapped at him, even as she scrubbed at the tears in her own eyes.

“Are you ok?” he asked her.

“Yeah,” she said, even as she shook her head in the negative and tears filled her eyes again.

“Hey,” he said softly, pulling her gently down to sit beside him on her carpet, their backs against the side of her bed. “Tell me.”

Betty drew a shaky breath and moved a little closer to him before answering. “I guess I’m just… terrified,” she began. I’m terrified of what people are going to say at school tomorrow now that everyone knows what I did to Chuck… how crazy I went. And I hate myself for caring what people think… especially when there’s a killer on the loose, and I should be so much more terrified of more important things. And I’m terrified of what you’re going to think of me when you read those diaries, as much of them as you want to anyway. 

“I really want to be honest, Juggie. I want you to know me. But I’m also afraid that if you really get to know me … you’ll realize I’m not worth sticking around for. And I’m terrified of how I might fall apart if that happens. And I hate myself for tying my self-worth to a guy like that… even a pretty wonderful guy,” she added, softening her tone.

“And, oh yeah,” she continued, pretending to be struck by a new thought, “my pregnant teenaged sister is living with the Blossoms who may or may not have been involved in killing their own son, my father is living at the newspaper offices, my mother is throwing bricks at him and is apparently now the full-time advisor for the school newspaper since she no longer has an actual job.”

Her voice grew softer again as she said “I hate myself for being such a coward – just being scared of everything. And I hate myself for hurting you and for keeping secrets from you and…” she was crying again, big tears that rolled silently down her cheeks, and Jughead pulled her even closer for a hug.

“Is it my turn now?” he asked her, and she nodded. “Good because… wow. I don’t even know where to start. I feel like I got flattened by an emotional tank last night, and I’m betting I’m going to be feeling that way for a while. I got too many buttons pushed for the feelings to just… resolve overnight. 

“You screwed up last night, Betty. You were right about that. But so did I. I said some horrible things to you. Horrible. And most of them weren’t even true. You’ve never treated me like a project or a charity case, for one thing. I just… can’t imagine what else you see in me, and so I put all that fear on you. You’re scared of me leaving? Join the club. I can think of a million reasons for you to walk away from me, and that was _before_ I acted like a jerk to you last night.

“I shouldn’t have called you perfect either. I know how much pressure your mother puts on you, and how much you put on yourself. And it was just mean to throw that comment out at you. You’re not perfect – I never thought you were. I wouldn’t want to be with you if I did! I see you pretty clearly, Betty – the you who reads Toni Morrison and writes poetry, the you who watches low-budget drive-in monster movies of the 1950s, the you who gets all my obscure references to books and movies that no one else ever heard of, or wants to. The you who gets creepy intense when you’re crusading for justice for a murdered classmate, or exploited girls, or your pregnant sister. The you who sees your crazy, toxic, dysfunctional family for exactly who and what they are, and is fearless enough to love them anyway – genuinely love them, even knowing they’ll chew you up over and over again. You’re a mess, but it’s a beautiful mess and I’m all in with that.

“You’re scared? Me too. Your family’s falling apart? Mine had a head start, so I’ll race you. But let’s be really clear. I’m not going anywhere, and there’s nothing you can possibly have written in those diaries – of which I am going to read every goddamned word, by the way! – that’s going to change that.

He was about to kiss her again when another thought occurred to him. “Also? I’m pretty sure I’m already going to break a promise to you. The ‘no secrets’ one. I sort of found out something today… about someone…and I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. And I can’t keep that promise AND my promise to you and…”

“Is it that Veronica spent the night with Archie after the party?” Betty asked shrewdly. 

“It’s… I… how did…” Jughead was a stammering mess.

“Relax, Juggie,” Betty laughed, and it sounded natural, clearing the air after the overwrought emotions that had dominated the night thus far. I stopped by Pop’s after school today. Mrs. Lodge was working and she thanked me for letting Veronica stay here last night. You and I both know _that_ didn’t happen. And there was no one else still at the party that she might have gone home with by the time you and I left. It makes sense that she stayed there. Of course,” she added after a pause, “I didn’t tell Mrs. Lodge that.”

“And you’re not… upset?” he probed cautiously.

“Of course not, Jughead! When we said ‘no secrets,’ I meant no more hiding things from each other… our own things. I meant what I said about wanting to know you. But we both have other friends, and we should be able to keep their confidences. And don’t worry… I won’t let on to Veronica or Archie that I figured this one out.”

“No, I mean, you’re not upset about Veronica and Archie?” Jughead persisted.

“Hey, I’m not saying I love it,” Betty responded. “Archie spent most of the night trying to get back together with Val, and then somehow spent the night with Veronica? That just doesn’t sound right. Not to mention they were both three sheets to the wind, which doesn’t tend to engender robust and healthy connections. But that’s for them to sort out.”

“Right, but I was kind of thinking more in the ‘you stopped speaking to both of them, and briefly befriended Cheryl Blossom the last time they so much as kissed’ kind of upset,” Jughead clarified.

“Are you asking if I’m jealous, Juggie?” Betty asked as comprehension dawned. He nodded miserably, hating his own insecurity as much as he hated seeing the hurt in Betty’s big, blue eyes.

“No secrets, remember?” he said. “And the truth is, I don’t want to wonder that, but I do, and I’m trying to… you know… be honest.”

“I’m with _you_ , Jughead,” Betty said, looking deeply into his eyes. “I choose _you_. And if you and Archie were both standing in front of me, I would still choose you.” She paused a moment to let that sink in before asking “Do you believe me?”

“Nah,” said Jughead, trying to sound casual as he leaned in to kiss her. “You’ll have to find some way to convince me.”


	6. Chapter 6

### Chapter 6

Archie hadn’t slept well.

He hadn’t slept well in a while now, as a matter of fact. It had been months since he’d slept deeply and woken, refreshed and untroubled. Not since before Jughead’s nightmare of a birthday party last week… before Jughead and Betty became inseparable… before Jason Blossom and the fourth of July… before Ms. Grundy… Archie groaned as he stretched. It had been a long while, now that he thought of it, since he’d had a really good sleep.

He wasn’t sure what had wakened him now from his fitful sleep. It was early, the sky still a chilly, pre-dawn grey. The world was silent, still.

He frowned. Actually, it was _too silent_. He should be able to hear Jughead’s breathing from the air mattress on the floor, the rustle of his covers as he shifted slightly in his sleep. But instead?

Silence.

Maybe Jughead was in the bathroom. Or the kitchen. His appetite for snacks was, after all, the stuff of legend. Yet Archie’s sense of disquiet remained. He didn’t think, somehow, that Juggie was in the house. But where else would he be? These were dark days in Riverdale, and while once, Archie would have felt confident that Jughead was safe anywhere he might go in town, these days, he was not so sure.

He stood and stretched. He was reluctant, but undoubtedly awake right now. Maybe he’d grab a snack himself – check the kitchen for Jughead while he was there.

But as he was turning for the door, a flicker of movement outside caught his eye. He crossed to the window, peering out into the fading darkness.

Just in time to see Jughead Jones climbing out of the window opposite his own… Betty’s window. And, speak of the devil, Betty herself leaned out of the window, apparently kissing Jughead goodbye before he descended the ladder propped against the side of her house.

***

Jughead eased the Andrews’ back door open and slipped inside the kitchen, closing the door almost soundlessly behind him. His flip flops were damp from the early morning dew, and he stepped out of them, preferring not to squeak his way across the tile floor. As he bent to pick them up, Archie’s voice startled him.

“’Morning there, Juggie.” The words were friendly enough. The tone was not.

“Archie!” Jughead gasped, snapping upright. “The hell, man? You scared me half to death!”

“You’re up early,” Archie observed, ignoring his comment. “Where ya been?”

It was strange, now that Jughead came to think of it. It was more than a week now since Betty had gifted him her diaries. He couldn’t stop reading them, not only for the insight into Betty herself, but also for the sheer joy of her writing. Her words were clean, persuasive, powerful, her thoughts more complex and nuanced than he’d ever imagined. He kept one or two volumes at a time in his backpack; the rest stayed at her house. And in that week, their nights had fallen into a pattern. He’d wait until Archie’s even breathing assured him his oldest friend was asleep, then creep out of the house and up the ladder to sleep with Betty in his arms until just before dawn. It had been a week of whispered conversations and gentle kisses and bone-deep contentment that he didn’t think he’d ever experienced before.

And every single day of that week, he’d thought about how pissed Archie would be if he caught him at it. Yet not once had he thought to come up with a plausible story for where he’d been.

He thought wildly of telling Archie he’d been jogging, but his childhood friend would know _that_ was a lie without so much as glancing at his eminently-unsuitable-for-athletic-pursuits flip flops. Having a cigarette was just as easily dismissed as a possible excuse; Archie knew he didn’t smoke. Pop’s wasn’t open at this hour… nothing was in Riverdale.

“Nowhere,” Jughead answered lamely after a silence that felt far too long.

“You had to be _somewhere_ ,” Archie persisted, his voice strangely hard.

“Nah,” Jughead replied, trying to stay casual. “I couldn’t sleep. Stepped outside and…” he spread his hands, “existential void.”

“Really,” said Archie flatly. A statement, not a question. “Because that void looked a hell of a lot like Betty Cooper’s window.”

And there it was. Jughead was, without a doubt, busted. There was no point lying about it; he knew first hand that Archie’s window commanded an excellent view of Betty’s. If Archie had seen him, there would be no pretending that he’d misunderstood or imagined it. And, when it came right down to it, he didn’t especially want to lie anyway. He wasn’t ashamed of anything he’d done – or not done, for that matter – with Betty. Even as his family and his hometown seemed to be gripped in a deadlocked battle to see who could fall to pieces harder and faster, he was happier and more at peace than he’d ever been.

But it occurred to him that he’d like to talk to Betty before having this conversation. In all the hours they’d spent talking – in the _Blue and Gold_ office, in a booth a Pop’s, in whispers in her bed at night – they’d never discussed what they would or wouldn’t share in a moment like this. He felt caught now, wanting to protect Betty’s privacy and his own, to honour the connection they’d forged… yet also wanting to shut down the speculation he saw in Archie’s eyes.

If he said nothing, Archie was going to assume his presence in Betty’s room was all about sex, which was patently untrue. Not that the thought hadn’t crossed Jughead’s mind a time or… ten… thousand, as he lay with Betty wrapped so closely around him, breathing the same air, their heartbeats throbbing together in the stillness. But they hadn’t even approached adding that dimension to their relationship, hadn’t even discussed it yet, and letting Archie’s speculation run wild felt like a betrayal of Betty. If she’d told him she didn’t care what Archie thought or imagined, he’d have no problem going along with that. But without her consent, failing to correct Archie’s impressions felt akin to making up locker room talk at her expense, or spreading false rumours.

On the other hand, trying to explain that sex had no part in how they’d been spending their nights felt just as wrong, both diminishing the incredible intimacy of the time they’d spent, and violating the almost sacred privacy of what he and Betty had shared.

It was an impossible decision… and one he had no right to make alone. If this conversation were going to happen, Betty had a right to be a part of it.

“Well?” Archie demanded, clearly infuriated by Jughead’s lack of response. He could read the building tension in his oldest friend’s posture, weight forward over the balls of his feet as if barely restraining himself from lunging at Jughead, fists flexing over and over.

“Yes, I was at Betty’s,” Jughead confirmed. Brief and factual. He’d be okay if he could keep it brief and factual.

“Why?” Archie demanded.

“To see Betty,” he answered simply, but with an edge to his tone.

“At five o’clock in the morning?” Archie’s voice could have stripped paint from metal.

“Apparently,” Jughead replied. He hadn’t meant for it to sound snarky, but even to his own ears, it kinda did.

“What were you doing?” Archie demanded, his voice getting louder now.

“That’s not really your business, is it?” As Archie got louder, Jughead made his own voice quieter. It was a tactic that had served him well when FP was drunk and spoiling for a fight. Not that he’d ever lash out at Jughead, of course. FP was in no way a perfect father, but he’d cut off his own arm before raising it against either of his kids. No, Jughead had simply cultivated the art of calming FP down before he got himself hurt, working himself into a rage over long-ago slights, or imagined grievances.

But it seemed that whatever emotional cocktail was short-circuiting Archie’s higher logical functions was more potent than FP’s favoured fifth of Wild Turkey, chased with a six pack. Instead of following Jughead’s lead back to the land of the inside voice, Archie continued to escalate.

“It damn well _is_ my business!” he roared, taking a menacing step closer.

“Why?” Jughead asked, standing his ground and continuing his “quiet voice” campaign. “Why should it be your business how Betty and her boyfriend spend our time?”

Archie was nearly apoplectic now, inarticulate with rage. Words bubbled from between his gritted teeth in a snarling word salad, only occasionally intelligible, but heavily focused on themes like “friend” and “take advantage.”

“We’re _both_ your friends,” said Jughead evenly, still quiet, as if Archie had managed to make some kind of cogent argument. “And we’re entitled to a measure of privacy. And if we’re going to have any more discussion on this topic, we’re going to respect Betty enough to do it when she’s here to speak for herself.”

And, without giving Archie a chance to say any more – or hit him – Jughead headed upstairs for a shower.


	7. Chapter 7

### Chapter 7

The walk to school had been anticlimactic, Betty reflected. After Jughead’s 6 a.m. text – “Archie saw my exit this a.m. He’s less than thrilled.” – she’d tried to imagine what happened next, whether there’d be tension or awkwardness as they walked to school, what she’d say.

But Archie had slammed out of the Andrews house 10 minutes earlier than usual and stalked off alone. She and Jughead had walked by themselves. They’d half-heartedly begun to discuss Archie, but given it up by mutual consent in favor of the pleasure of walking silently hand-in-hand, listening to their own footsteps and the crunch of leaves beneath their feet.

“Later,” they’d promised each other as Jughead left her at the gym for a River Vixens practice and disappeared to… wherever he went on the mornings they came in well before class.

And now, practice behind her, with a good 20 minutes to go before classes, she was hoping to follow up on that promise of “later.” She had a reasonable hope that she’d find Jughead alone in the student lounge. Not many kids hung out there before school in the mornings. And the rest of the Vixens were still blowing out their hair and putting finishing touches on their makeup. Her own ponytail-and-lip-gloss regimen left her with time to spare, compared with the more elaborate routines that were the norm for the team.

The lounge appeared empty when she arrived, but before she could leave to check the _Blue and Gold_ office, Veronica caught up with her, dragged her inside the lounge, and closed the door behind them both.

“That was fast,” Betty observed, taking in Veronica’s usual, impeccable hair and makeup. “Are all of the Vixens ready?”

“Please,” Veronica scoffed in what Betty thought of as her New York voice. “Those amateurs have miles to go before they sleep. I, on the other hand, can go full face in 45 seconds flat. It’s a gift,” she added airily as Betty quirked an eyebrow at her in disbelief. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh? And why are you here?” Betty asked, doing what was obviously expected of her.

“I am here, my fresh-faced chiclet, because we made a vow. A _solemn_ vow,” Veronica replied.

“Ummm… we did?” Betty answered uncertainly.

“Betty Mildred Cooper, this is serious!” Veronica exclaimed.

“My middle name’s not Mildred,” Betty interrupted, fixating on the one detail she was sure of in Veronica’s torrent of words.

“It _should_ be,” Veronica assured her. “It has good rhythm to it. But that’s not the point!”

“Okay,” said Betty again. “So, what is the point? Because I’m assuming there is one?”

“The point, Ms. Betty Not Mildred Cooper, is that we vowed no boy would ever come between us again. And _that_ means that you and I are due for some girl talk.”

Betty suddenly found it hard to breathe. Her palms tingled, even as her blood began to roar in her ears.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, her own voice seeming tinny and far away. “Juggie would never…”

“Juggie?” Veronica interrupted, looking at her quizzically. “Of course he wouldn’t. He adores you.” As Betty began to breathe freely again, Veronica continued. “It’s young Archibald Andrews we need to discuss.”

“Archie?” Betty repeated stupidly, thrown off balance by the apparent _non sequitur_. “What does _Archie_ have to do with anything?”

“He’s asked me to homecoming,” Veronica answered, watching her closely as if to gauge her reaction.

“But… that’s weeks away,” Betty pointed out, still feeling like she was struggling to keep up with the thread of the conversation. At Veronica’s nod of confirmation, she asked, “So… do you already have a date or something?” Veronica shook her head. “So, then there’s no problem, right?” Betty asked, still trying to work out why they were having this very strange conversation.

“Except for our vow,” Veronica reminded her.

“Our vow,” Betty echoed.

“’Chicks before dicks,” Veronica added helpfully.

Betty couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing. “Eloquently expressed,” she agreed when she could again trust her voice. “But I’m not sure how it applies here.”

“It applies, my precious pearl of innocence, because you’ve been in love with our Archiekins since pretty much forever,” Veronica explained with exaggerated patience. “I know you’re with Jughead now, but I also know that years of devotion don’t just disappear overnight. And I, for one, am done trampling on the tender toes – and other sensibilities – of my Riverdale bestie.”

Clarity dawned, bringing with it a wave of affection for Betty’s newest friend. “You’re afraid I’m going to be hurt if you and Archie go to homecoming together.” She framed it as a statement, even though she was seeking confirmation. “Even though you spent the night with him after Jughead’s birthday party,” she added, unable to resist teasing Veronica a little.

Veronica paled. “How did you...”

Betty laughed again, almost giddy with her relief that Veronica wasn’t somehow involved with or interested in Jughead. “Your Mom mentioned how glad she was you’d stayed over at my place that night. From there, it was simple deduction.”

“And you’re just _now_ saying something?” Veronica screeched.

Betty shrugged. “It wasn’t really any of my business. I figured you’d tell me when and if you wanted to.”

“Valid,” Veronica acknowledged. “But, are you okay? I mean, really okay?” Veronica looked at her searchingly.

“I am,” Betty replied simply. “REALLY,” she added at Veronica’s skeptical look. “V, I love that you care about my feelings. I really do. But your concern is just… so misplaced.”

“The first time I met you, you and Archie were on what looked an awful lot like a date,” Veronica answered. “In our first conversation, Kevin told me you guys were ‘end game.’ The first time I kissed him, you stopped talking to both of us… Do you see where I’m going with this? I just don’t see how your feelings could change _that_ much in such a short time. You tell him how you feel, he says he feels differently, and it all just goes away? How does _that_ work?”

Betty sighed. She could see where Veronica was coming from, but wasn’t sure how to explain herself in a way that her friend would understand.

“Look,” she began. “Archie totally broke my heart the night of the back-to-school semi formal… but not because he rejected me. That, I was more than half expecting.” At Veronica’s disbelieving huff, she added “ _Really_! Why else did I put off saying anything to him for… years?

“I’ve had some time to think about this, and I’m not sure I was _ever_ as in love with Archie as I was with… the narrative, you know? Cheerleader and football player… the literal boy next door… the childhood friend who grows into one true love. My Mom has this weird grudge against Archie, but he actually fit the story she has me playing out pretty perfectly. And I think I felt like… if my life fit into that story, then it would be ok… _I_ would be ok.

“And that wasn’t even the worst of it,” Betty continued. “Do you know what he said to me that night?” Veronica shook her head. “He said I was 'so perfect' he could never be good enough for me. _That_ was what broke my heart; it devastated me.” She could see that Veronica still didn’t understand, though, so she kept talking.

“I’m _not_ perfect, Veronica. I’m not even _almost_ perfect or _kind of_ perfect. I’m a mess a huge part of the time, and I keep running as hard as I can, trying to compensate for all the broken bits inside me, trying to keep the outside together enough that people can live with me. But it’s exhausting and it’s hard and it doesn’t change the ‘broken’ inside.

“When Archie said that to me, I realized that he didn’t even really know me… didn’t see any more than the image my parents demand. My whole life, almost, Archie’s been my best friend. And my whole life, I’ve believed that he was the one person who knew me best, who saw me for who I am. And suddenly, I realized that was just another story I was telling myself.

“It wasn’t the rejection that broke my heart, V” said Betty earnestly. “It was giving up the dream that I had this one person who really understood me and accepted me… just me.” She paused a moment, letting that sink in, before she continued.

“Jughead _knows_ me, Veronica. He _sees_ me. He sees my crazy and my selfish and my ugly and my broken just as clearly as he sees my good points. And he likes me anyway. He chooses to _be_ with me anyway. 

“That’s what I want. I don’t want ‘perfect;’ I want _real_. I never had that with Archie… not even in a friendship. And he’ll always be my friend, and I’ll always care about him. But now that I know what it feels like to really _belong_ with someone, I could never settle for what I used to imagine was there with Archie.

“So, Ms. Veronica Lodge. You want to go to homecoming with Archie? Do it! I want you both to be happy, and you’d look cute as hell together. Just… be careful.”

“Careful?” Veronica asked, wrinkling her nose. “With Archie?”

Betty nodded. “Cheryl Blossom is a psychotic bitch, but she wasn’t wrong in everything she said about Archie during her little ‘sins and secrets’ game at the party. Archie can’t seem to make a relationship work with anyone right now. And he’s been bouncing from one to another pretty fast. Ms. Grundy… you… Val… you again… 

“I don’t think he really knows who he is or what he wants right now. And that makes me worry about whether he’s someone you can really count on… you know, like Jughead is for me.”


	8. Chapter 8

### Chapter 8

“We made a vow. A _solemn_ vow.” Veronica’s voice somewhere behind him was strident, startling Jughead awake.

He’d fallen asleep on a couch in the Riverdale High student lounge. Truth be told, he was exhausted. A week of sleeping in Betty’s bed had spoiled him for sleeping alone ever again. But there was no denying that the nightly routine of creeping in her window after both Archie and her parents were asleep, stealing away again before dawn, was beginning to take a toll on him.

As soon as he’d left Betty at her River Vixens practice (he still couldn’t believe he was dating a cheerleader, although he consoled him that at least she was a bit of an outsider on the team), he’d beelined for the lounge to sprawl on his favourite, ratty couch in the furthest corner. The couch faced the corner and a grimy window, away from the rest of the room, so that when he lay down on it, its high back concealed him from view by anyone else in the lounge.

He just barely remembered lying down, and then… nothing, until Veronica’s voice had shocked him into wakefulness. It was only too evident the two girls had no idea he was there, but by the time he was awake and capable of cogent speech, their conversation was far enough advanced to make revelations awkward. So he lay, perfectly still… and he listened.

He winced when Veronica so boldly declared Betty’s lifelong love for Archie, even knowing it was the truth… a truth he knew better than anyone after reading four volumes of her diary, at least half of each devoted to her unrequited longings for her best friend. He hadn’t quite gotten up the nerve to read her current or most recent diaries yet; the idea of reading what she said about _him_ , about the change in their relationship, about having to contrast it to years of pent-up passion for Archie, was just too daunting. So he’d read diaries from a couple of years ago. And he knew, without Veronica’s help, thank you very much, just how much Archie had dominated Betty’s thoughts.

He winced again when Betty artlessly revealed that she already knew about Archie and Veronica’s little sleepover after his birthday party.

And then… he simply went numb, as Betty systematically and unknowingly dismantled everything he’d thought he knew about her relationship with Archie, and about the rejection that had left her available to get involved with Jughead instead.

Until this moment, Jughead would have said he understood perfectly his role in Betty’s life. He’d honestly believed he was okay with being a solid second choice, the guy she’d turned to and developed a genuine fondness for… _after_ Archie Andrews had bowed out of the race.

But as he listened to her telling Veronica, in tones that rang with sincerity – and without knowing that Jughead could hear her – that he was the one she wanted? The explosion of emotion that rocked him was so unfamiliar, it took a moment for him to recognize it for what it was:

Joy.

And it was that rush of joy which told him just how much his self-proclaimed status as “runner up” in Betty’s affections had rankled… how much it had hurt him to feel second best in the life and heart of someone who, far and away, held first place in his own.

So Jughead lay, silent and still, half listening to Betty and Veronica’s conversation, but mostly consumed with his own feelings as his world gradually rearranged itself along new, and much more satisfying lines. And when he heard Veronica leave the room, he sat up.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he said quietly.

Betty jumped, startled at the sound of his voice in the room where she’d believed herself alone. “Jughead!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“Sleeping,” he shrugged. “Then waking up. Then listening. It’s been a busy morning.”

Betty laughed softly, but didn’t answer right away.

“I wasn’t trying to spy on you,” Jughead added. “I mean, I woke up, and you were already in the midst of this conversation and…”

“I get it,” Betty reassured him. “I understand.”

“Well, thanks,” he answered. “But you’re still wrong.” Somehow his voice sounded tender, rather than critical.

“What am I wrong about,” Betty asked, her mouth already curving into a smile as she anticipated on of his sly, sardonic observations.

“Me,” he answered. “You’re absolutely right that I _do_ see you – messy and intense and crazy and wonderful and all of it. But you’re dead wrong about the rest. I don’t see all that and like you anyway.”

Betty’s smile faltered, until Jughead continued. “I see all of that with perfect clarity… and I love you _because_ of it… because of _everything_ you are. There’s no ‘anyway’ about it. There’s no part of you I don’t love.”

“You…” Betty breathed, her eyes shining, but stopped without saying more.

“Love you, yes,” Jughead confirmed. “It appears that I do.”

***

Betty Cooper wasn’t often speechless. In fact, she’d raised “knowing the right thing to say in virtually any situation” to the level of an art form.

All that _savoir faire_ had just deserted her.

For probably the first time in her life, she was... speechless…

… devastated…

…elated…

… disbelieving…

Betty had been trained from an early age to say the right thing, do the right thing, look the right way. Her parents’ approval always depended on compliance, achievement, meeting their expectations. And it always felt as though their love depended on their approval.

So she’d spent her entire life trying to be good enough, right enough, to be loved… until this single moment. Until Jughead Jones, who saw all of the parts of her that she’d tried to desperately to fix or to suppress, to change or to hide, to bury so deep they could never be found… saw them, and loved them, right along with the rest of her.

It was, without a doubt, the most transcendently wonderful moment of her entire life. The moment when Jughead – quiet, loner, wrong-side-of-the-tracks Jughead – told her that she was lovable, _all_ of her, exactly as she was. No matter what the future held for their still-new relationship, she knew that she would love him until the day she died for that glimpse of what it was like to be genuinely loved… to belong.

But finding the words to say all that – even finding the breath to say it – was beyond her abilities right now. And she knew, all the way down to her perfectly trimmed toenails, that her speechlessness was perfectly all right with Jughead.

Just to be sure, though, she stepped into the ever-ready warmth of his embrace and clung to him until she could again form words.

“That works out nicely, then,” she said at last, her voice slightly muffled against his shirt, “because it appears that I love you rather a lot, too.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to RaptorLily. I swear, this is the last of that particular theme. :)

### Chapter 9

The bell had rung almost the second Betty told Jughead she loved him. There’d been no time for more than a quick kiss before they had to scramble, hand-in-hand, to homeroom. Yet the warmth that had grown between them in those stolen moments before class kept growing through the morning. By lunch time, Betty was convinced she must be visibly glowing from the bubble of joy within her.

She and Jughead took their lunches to their usual picnic table on the far edge of the school property. It was getting chilly as the fall advanced, and more and more students were opting to stay indoors at lunchtime. But they were agreed that chilly privacy and fresh air were infinitely preferable to warm, stale air in the fishbowl atmosphere of the school cafeteria, so they layered on sweaters and jackets in order to stretch picnic table season as far as possible. Most days, their friends would join them after they’d finished eating, but for now, they were comfortably, companionably alone.

They spread out their lunches together – Betty’s meticulously packed the night before, homemade and nutritionally balanced, Jughead’s a random assortment of leftovers haphazardly stuffed into a takeout container on the way out the door this morning – and shared them, a cozy habit they’d fallen into over the past few weeks almost without noticing it.

For a few minutes, they chewed and passed food back and forth in amicable silence. Long years of friendship with Jughead had taught Betty not to expect lunchtime conversation from him until he’d worked his way through at least his first sandwich.

But, sooner than she’d expected, he turned his attention from the spread before them and looked at her, directly, but with an odd, unfamiliar vulnerability in his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Did you mean it?” he asked. “Seriously, no joke, not just-because-I-said-it-first-and-you-panicked, mean it?”

Betty didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. She knew exactly what he was talking about. “Of course I meant it, Juggie,” she said softly, cupping his cheek with her palm. “Why? Didn’t you?”

Jughead huffed out a breathy sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Obviously _I_ meant it; I’m the one who brought up the subject. But you’re… _you_... a fundamentally lovable person, whereas _I’m_ …”

“The first person in my life who’s ever made me feel that way,” Betty cut him off, now cradling his face between both of her hands. “That’s not the only reason I love you, but it’s definitely on the list… the very long, _long_ list,” she added.

He closed his eyes, and simultaneously closed the distance between them, capturing her mouth in a kiss. He kissed her in part because he couldn’t be this close to her and _not_ want to kiss her… and in part to hide the fact that his eyes were filled with tears. Not that Betty would mind his tears…. or be fooled by his manoeuvre, for that matter. If _he_ were to make a list of reasons he loved _her_ … well, he’d need a bigger hard drive, that was for damn sure. But the fact that she was smarter than any two people he knew put together, and saw through his defences without even squinting, would be somewhere near the top.

“So,” he said, moving away from her at last. “In love.”

“Looks that way,” Betty agreed with a smile, passing him another sandwich. “Is that okay with you?”

“More than okay,” he confirmed, nodding his thanks for the sandwich. He was fairly sure Betty intentionally brought extra food with him in mind… not that he was complaining. “Unexpected, mind you, but you know me. _You_ may be all about the beast within, Betty Cooper, but _I_ am all about the road less travelled.”

Betty smiled, but didn’t answer, preferring to finish the apple slices she was munching before wiping her fingers delicately. “Finish it off, Juggie,” she said, indicating the remains of their shared lunch. Jughead didn’t need to be told twice. He’d spent too much of his childhood hungry to ever willingly let food go to waste.

As he was finishing and tidying the table, though, he saw Betty shiver.

“You’re cold,” he said with concern, even as he began slipping his arms out of the sleeves of his fleece-lined denim jacket.

“I am,” Betty agreed, “but keep your jacket on.” Before he could argue, she added, “I’d rather you keep me warm yourself.” And, turning her back to him, she leaned against his chest, drawing both his arms and the front panels of his jacket around her. She was turned sideways on the bench now, her knees up and her feet flat on the seat in front of her. He turned in the same direction, straddling the bench in order to draw her more securely into his embrace.”

“Better?” he asked, even as his breath hitched at her nearness.

“Perfect,” she answered with an unmistakably genuine sigh of contentment.

Before Jughead could do more than _begin_ to appreciate the perfection of her fit against him, Veronica and Kevin arrived, both sporting parkas and gloves in contrast to his and Betty’s fall attire, and Veronica carrying a stainless steel Thermos.

“Coffee,” she explained in laconic reply to Betty’s inquiringly quirked eyebrow. “Saint Bernards with life-giving flasks are notoriously sparse in these parts,” she added, “so I’m not taking any chances.” She poured a cup for herself in the lid of the Thermos, then poured for the other three in paper cups Kevin procured from some unseen pocket.

“A parka?” Betty asked teasingly as she took an appreciative sip of the coffee. It _was_ cool out, and she had been awake for far too many long hours already. “Isn’t it a little early for that?”

It was Kevin who answered. “Well, we’re not _all_ wearing tall, dark and brooding this season,” he quipped, eyeing her and Jughead meaningfully.

Betty rolled her eyes at him, but was prevented from answering by Veronica.

“Coffee, Archikins?” she chirped, and everyone at the table glanced up in time to see Archie halt in mid-stride. Ignoring Veronica, he cast Jughead a look of purest loathing, his gaze somehow excluding Betty as completely as if she’d been invisible, before turning on his heel and striding away.

“Hello? _Rude_!” Kevin exclaimed.

“ _What_ is his _deal_?” Veronica concurred.

Until that moment, Jughead had completely forgotten his early morning confrontation with Archie. It had, quite simply, been overshadowed by the infinitely more compelling discovery that Betty loved him. But after an uncomfortable pause, he realized that Veronica and Kevin were both staring him in expectation of some kind of explanation.

“It’s… possible… that Archie may be… annoyed with me,” he hedged.

“Judging from the death glare he just threw you, _yeah_ ,” Veronica replied drily. “I’d say it’s just barely possible that he _might_ be. So spill, Forsythe. What did you do to Andrews junior?”

“Nothing!” Jughead protested, not even rising to the bait of her using his given name. “Honestly!” he added, as both Kevin and Veronica continued to stare at him, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t do a thing to him.”

“It’s true,” Betty confirmed. “Mostly,” she added. “It’s ok, Juggie, you can tell them. I don’t mind.” Still leaning against him, her back to his chest, she tipped back her head and kissed him just under his jaw, causing him to temporarily lose his train of thought.

“Archie _may_ have seen me… leaving Betty’s room in a… clandestine manner this morning,” he allowed reluctantly. Kevin continued to stare at him expectantly, eyebrows raised in anticipation, so he added a terse explanation – “Window.” – before noticing that Veronica’s face had gone completely blank. “What’s wrong?” he asked her.

“Archie is mad because he saw you climbing out of your own girlfriend’s window,” she enunciated carefully. “You’re _sure_ about this? You know for a _fact_ that’s why he’s suddenly going all Clint Eastwood on you?”

“Pretty sure, yeah,” he said, a little startled by the intensity of her reaction. “He was in the kitchen when I snuck back in this morning, and started shouting about Betty and friendship and betrayal. At one point, I actually thought he was going to hit me.

“Last year, I might not have minded,” he joked, trying to lighten the atmosphere, “but a summer of hauling rocks for his Dad has made that a threat not to be trifled with.”

“And you, Betty?” Veronica asked crisply, ignoring Jughead’s attempt at humour. “Is he mad at you, too?”

“I… don’t know,” said Betty lamely, the only person at the table who had figured out what Veronica’s reaction meant. “He… well, he hasn’t spoken to me since it all went down.”

“We’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Veronica snapped, rising. “As in, _yes_ , Archie became infuriated with his two best friends upon learning they’d spent the night together, and then promptly came to school and asked _me_ to homecoming. And _I_ will take it as my cue to exit.

“Stay!” Veronica snapped at Betty, as she might at an ill-trained show dog, when she saw her friend begin to rise. “This isn’t your fault… and I need space, not girl talk right now.” Without another word, she strode away, back towards the school… the opposite of the direction Archie had taken.

Jughead gave Betty a reassuring squeeze, then looked up to find Kevin, still staring at them avidly.

“I. Am. Riveted!” he exclaimed. “Details, now. Spill!”


	10. Chapter 10

### Chapter 10

“Ronnie! Hey! Ronnie… wait up, “ Archie yelled, still trying to slip his arm through the strap of his backpack as he ran down the steps of Riverdale High, intent on catching up with the raven-haired girl who seemed equally intent on ignoring him.

“Veronica, where’s the fire?” he asked when he finally caught up to her halfway down the block. “I’ve been trying to catch you since the bell rang.”

“Yeah?” she challenged, spinning to face him at last. “Well, _I’ve_ been avoiding you since hours before that, so I had a head start.”

“Okay,” Archie said hesitantly. “Am I allowed to know why?”

“Hmmm…” Veronica gazed skyward in a pantomime of thinking about the question. “Sure. Why not? I’ll be glad to tell you all about it… _if_ you answer a ‘why’ question for me first. As in _why_ did you ask me to homecoming?”

“Well, it seemed like the best way to get you to go with me,” Archie answered lamely, hoping desperately that he didn’t sound as confused as he felt. When he’d spoken to Veronica about homecoming before school this morning, she’d said she wanted to think about it. But she hadn’t seemed angry about it. Somehow, between then and now, something had gone horribly awry.

“And you _wanted_ me to go with you,” Veronica said. Her tone somehow made the statement both a question and an accusation.

“Um… yes?” Archie wasn’t sure what was going on here, but his instincts were screaming that he had inadvertently strayed onto dangerous ground.

“ _Fas_ cinating,” Veronica enunciated crisply. “And your reason for cutting me dead at lunch was?”

Archie flushed slightly, the perennial curse of the redhead. “I didn’t exactly…” he began lamely, but Veronica cut him off.

“I offered you coffee. You ignored me, turned a glare of murderous hate and maniacal intensity on your best friend, and then stomped off without so much as acknowledging my presence… or anyone else’s,” Veronica recited. “What would you call that… _exactly_?”

“Look, Ronnie,” he tried again. “I was rude to you. I get that, and I’m sorry. But that really wasn’t about you, or homecoming, or any of that. It was totally unrelated.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” she answered warningly. “But go ahead. Enlighten me. What _was_ it about, then?”

Archie was no longer flushing slightly. He could tell by the wave of heat in his face that he was beet red by now. For a moment, he’d thought Veronica was simply – albeit excessively – annoyed that he hadn’t returned her greeting at lunch. Now, though, he could dimly sense where this conversation was trending, and he was fairly certain things were about to get much worse.

“It was about… uh…” He found the situation surprisingly difficult to explain. “Well, Jughead and I... had a fight earlier,” he said at last. “And I was still angry when I saw you all at lunch. I’m sorry again I was rude to you.” He glanced up at Veronica hopefully, then jumped as she unexpectedly made a jarring noise like a game show buzzer or an anti-theft device.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” she said in a falsely bright and cheery voice. “That answer has been deemed unacceptable by our panel of judges. _Please_ try again. 

"What. Did you. And Jughead. Fight. About?” She bit off each word as if it were a stand-alone sentence, with capital letters he could practically see in the air above her head… right next to the noose he could finally see closing around him, leaving him powerless to save himself.

“We…” he began, but trailed off. “He…” Archie tried again, but got no further. On the spot like this, it was difficult to recover the righteous indignation he’d felt in the early hours of the morning. In fact, he was rapidly coming to the miserable conviction that he’d acted like an ass for no good reason at all.

“Having trouble, Archiekins,” Veronica cooed in mock concern. “Let’s see if I can help. You found out that Jughead Jones spent the night with _his girlfriend_ , and you promptly went all Jack Torrance about it.”

“I didn’t go… whoever that is!” Archie protested. “But I was _concerned_ about Juggie exploiting Betty, and…” This time, It was Veronica’s sharp exhalation of disgust that interrupted him.

“Exploiting? Seriously? What’s _that_ riff?” she demanded, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Those two are _crazy_ in love. They’d floss their teeth while watching paint dry and consider it a great night, so long as they were doing it together. Of _course_ she’s having him stay over whenever she can.”

“They’re _not_ in love!” Archie all but shouted, startling himself with his own vehemence. “I mean, sure, they’re kind of _dating_ … or whatever… but it’s nothing serious…” he trailed off of his own accord this time, without even waiting for Veronica to interrupt, as he watched her expression of disbelief morph gradually into one of pity.”

“Archiekins,” she said in a gentler tone than she’d used toward him all afternoon, “wake up and smell the end game. They’re not ‘kind of dating.’ They’re together. Totally, irrevocably together. And having listened to an extemporaneous Jughead-themed monologue from Betty this morning, complete with themes of personal transformation and newfound meaning in life, I can promise you that _she_ , at least, is fathoms-deep in love. And if you don’t know Juggie’s in love with her… well, you obviously haven’t been paying attention.”

Archie felt slightly numb now. “She _can’t_ be in love with him” he insisted stubbornly, though with no real conviction. “She’s always been in love with…” he trailed off yet again, but Veronica understood anyway.

“With you?” she asked, and he nodded miserably, not proud of what his attitude suggested about him. “Maybe she was at one point, Archie. Or maybe she just _thought_ she was,” he made a gesture of denial, but Veronica continued inexorably. “It doesn’t matter now. You had your chance, and you made your choice. She’s made hers, too. She’s in love with Jughead… wouldn’t trade now even if she could. 

“And as for you, my Titian friend?” Veronica paused. “ _You’re_ jealous.”

There was silence for a few moments while Archie reflected on that. He instinctively wanted to deny it, to dismiss the mere suggestion as preposterous.

But he couldn’t.

The pieces fit too well… the rage he’d felt at seeing Jughead leaving Betty’s room… the twist in his gut when he saw them at lunch, so wrapped up in one another that they didn’t even notice his approach… the general sense of irritation he’d felt ever since they began dating.

“I shouldn’t be,” he grudgingly admitted at last, “but yeah. I guess I am, a little. I mean… I meant it, when I told Betty I didn’t feel that way about her…”

“But you liked knowing that she felt that way about you?” Veronica supplied. “And you took for granted that she always would?”

Archie just nodded, too choked with self-recriminations to speak for the moment.

They’d been standing by the side of the road, at the exact point where Archie had caught up to her, but now, by mutual consent, they turned and began ambling toward home. Most of their schoolmates had already passed by, and they were alone.

“Okay,” said Archie after walking a few minutes in silence. “You’ve made your point. I’m jealous of Jughead and Betty, and I was rude to you at lunch. But what does all this have to do with homecoming?”

“Seriously?” Veronica challenged him, giving him a major side-eye without even breaking her stride. “You don’t see the relevance?” Archie shrugged, and Veronica sighed dramatically.

“Once upon a time, when the world was young and I was new in town, you and I kissed.” Archie nodded. He remembered that pretty vividly. “Whereupon, Ms. Betty Cooper was bitten by the green-eyed monster, an experience that prompted her to lay it all on the line with you and confront you with her feelings.” Archie nodded again. That, he’d never forget. His heart still hurt just thinking about that night on the walkway in front of Betty’s house.

“Lo and behold, this morning, that self-same green-eyed monster got to _you_ , Archibald Andrews. And instead of having the courage Betty did, and telling her about it, risking being rejected… the way you rejected her,” Archie winced, but Veronica ignored it, “you responded by asking _me_ to homecoming. Me… of ‘seven minutes in Heaven’ fame… she most likely to spark reciprocal jealousy in Betty.

“And _that_ is why I _won’t_ be going to homecoming with you, Archiekins. I don’t like being anyone’s second choice… or third… or whatever I am after Betty and Val and Ms. Grundy and God knows who else.

“I don’t like being second choice. And I _really_ don’t like being used.”

Now it was Archie’s turn to sigh. Put that way… he couldn’t even blame Veronica for rejecting his offer. “I’m a jerk, aren’t I?” he asked her wryly, admitting defeat.

“Li’l bit, yeah,” she answered after a moment of pretend reflection. But she smiled as she said it, bumping his shoulder companionably with her own as they continued toward home.


	11. Chapter 11

### Chapter 11

“So… homecoming,” Jughead said. He and Betty were in the student lounge, long since abandoned for the day by the rest of the student body. Betty’s lap was full of page proofs for the next edition of the _Blue and Gold_ ; they’d brought their work in here after the school became quiet, preferring to work in the cozy and comfortable atmosphere of the lounge whenever possible. The _Blue and Gold_ office, with its straight-backed chairs, archaic computers, and overflowing shelves and filing cabinets, didn’t tend to inspire creativity… or closeness as they worked together.

Betty was sitting at one end of Jughead’s favourite couch in the corner, reviewing the proofs. He was at the opposite end, Betty’s feet in his lap, reviewing his notes from the Blossom investigation. There was something he was missing… some connection or link that he could sense, but not quite see yet, and he was determined to pin it down. But at the moment, he had other subjects on his mind.

Betty didn’t react immediately to his comment, still frowning with an adorably wrinkled brow as she focused on some detail on the pages in front of her, her tongue poking out between her teeth.

Jughead waited, familiar enough with Betty to know that his words would penetrate her concentration… eventually. A moment passed, then another.

At last, Betty raised her head and looked at him in slight puzzlement, as if just noticing his presence for the first time.

“Sorry… what?” she asked. He smiled at her and squeezed her toes quickly.

“I said: ‘so… homecoming,’” he repeated.

“Don’t remind me!” Betty groaned, falling back and letting her head drop over the arm of the couch dramatically, a pose that momentarily distracted Jughead by thrusting her breasts into prominence. “I haven’t even convened a meeting of the planning committee yet,” she continued, unaware of his distraction. “I mean, I’ve made the overall timeline for the preparations, and made up checklists for each committee member to work through, but…” Jughead chuckled, and she sat up – Dang! That pose had been… interesting – to eye him suspiciously. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” he answered unabashedly. “Or possibly me. You make it incredibly difficult for me to be detached and off-hand about asking you to homecoming when you persist in either not hearing me, or not understanding me.

“Although, on reflection,” he added, “why I’m trying to act detached about asking my girlfriend out is perhaps a question best left unexplored.”

“You want to go to homecoming?” Betty repeated, as if unsure she’d heard him correctly. “Together?”

“Is that a problem?” asked Jughead, his smile fading a little.

“Of course it’s not a problem,” Betty scoffed. “I’m just… surprised. I didn’t really figure homecoming was your scene. Have you ever gone to _any_ school dance before?”

“No,” Jughead conceded, his equilibrium restored. “But then, I never had a gorgeous girlfriend who was thoroughly invested in _planning_ the dance before either.” He felt a rush of satisfaction when she blushed at his compliment.

“Well then, Mr. Jones,” Betty replied, her cheeks still pink, “you’ve got yourself a date.”

A thought had just occurred to Jughead, though. “You won’t mind…” he hesitated, feeling like a fool.

“What?” Betty asked when he didn’t continue. “What?” she repeated more insistently when he only shook his head.

Jughead had to clear his throat before answering. “I won’t be the best-dressed guy there,” he observed. “My wardrobe doesn’t really run to formal wear.”

Betty rolled her eyes at him. “The horror, the horror,” she said flatly. “Wear what you wore to Jason Blossom’s memorial,” she suggested. “You looked adorable that afternoon.”

Now, Jughead was blushing. Had she really thought so?

“Or wear the sweater you wore to Polly’s baby shower,” she continued, “or what you’re wearing right now. Jughead… I want to go with you, not your outfit!

“Just promise me one thing,” she added.

“Anything!” Jughead promised rashly.

“No sequins,” Betty stipulated, straight-faced.

Jughead gasped in mock horror. “Are you stifling my self-expression?” he demanded with imperious dignity. “How _dare_ you?!? This date is off! Good day to you, madam.”

Betty broke first, dissolving into giggles – God, he loved making her laugh – at his outraged tone. Jughead joined her in the laughter.

“Are you sure I can’t have just a _few_ sequins?” he pretended to plead. “Just a handful, on my beanie?”

“Juggie, you can paint yourself purple and glue sequins to your eyebrows for all I care,” said Betty. “It just really means a lot to me that you’ll be there.

“Besides,” she added, “my only real problem with sequins is that I don’t want your dazzle to outshine me.”

“Not possible,” he replied promptly, leaning in to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “You have more dazzle than sequins could ever add.”

Betty gave him another smile before turning back to her proofs.

***

Betty had to be home for supper. Despite her mother’s recent involvement with the _Blue and Gold_ , she would not accept the school newspaper as a reason for relaxing her rules on that point.

“Your father and I have run the _Riverdale Register_ for the past 15 years, and we’ve always sat down to supper as a family,” she insisted.

That was, of course, pure fiction. Betty had initially learned to cook as a survival strategy; she and Polly were often home alone until late in the evening, even when they were too young – according to their parents – to walk to Pop’s on their own.

But historical accuracy and intellectual consistency were, as Betty herself expressed it, not a hill she was prepared to die on. Which was why by 6:15 that evening, after a quick good-bye at Betty’s door, Jughead was letting himself into the Andrews house, debating whether his budget would stretch to cover a burger at Pop’s. Fred was out for the evening, and dining on leftovers at home, _tête à tête_ with Archie and his rage issues didn’t hold a lot of appeal. On the other hand, he hadn’t found another job since the drive-in closed, and his savings were gradually dwindling.

The front hall was dark, so he didn’t notice Archie sitting on the steps until he all but stepped on him on his way upstairs to see whether there might be a forgotten twenty lurking in the pocket of his other jeans or the lining of his bag.

“Archie,” he gasped, falling back a step in surprise. “Dude, you scared me half to death!” He paused to flip on a light. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

Archie shrugged and half smiled. “Mostly to scare you half to death.” Jughead chucked a little.

“Have you eaten?” Archie asked after an awkward pause. Jughead shook his head. “Wanna go to Pop’s?” Archie offered. “My treat.”

“Why?” Jughead asked suspiciously. He wasn’t generally one to question such largesse – he couldn’t afford to be – but at the end of a day characterized by alternate shouting and icy silence, this sudden affability did seem to demand that the question be asked.

Archie looked self-conscious, as if he’d hoped this question would come up later, if at all. “Because… it’s come to my attention that… I may have been a bit of a jerk to you today,” he answered, not quite meeting Jughead’s eyes.

Jughead couldn’t resist teasing his old friend a little. “’May?’” he repeated, eyebrows raised. But Archie knew him too well to rise to the bait.

“Look, do you want a burger or not?” he asked, ignoring Jughead’s teasing.

“Definitely,” said Jughead. “Always.”


	12. Chapter 12

### Chapter 12

By mutual consent, they waited until the first pangs of hunger had been sated before continuing their discussion.

“So,” said Jughead once his burger had disappeared and he was working his way steadily through his onion rings, “who exactly brought the jerk factor to your attention?”

“Veronica,” Archie answered glumly, “when she turned me down for homecoming.”

“ _She’s_ not going to homecoming with _you_ , because _you_ were a jerk to _me_?” Jughead said skeptically. “Be still my heart. At last I have a champion.”

“She’s not going to homecoming with me because I was a jerk, period,” Archie clarified. “To you, to her, to Betty… I think maybe Kevin a little bit.” He paused, but Jughead opted not to speak. Working on the paper, Betty had told him that sometimes people would say more to fill a silence than they would to answer a question. It seemed like a solid tactic here, too, so he took a sip of his milkshake and then filled his mouth ostentatiously full of onion rings, a visual demonstration that he would not be contributing to the conversation in the near future.

Archie sighed, clearly getting the hint. “So, what? Now I have to explain my jerkishness?” He sounded slightly impatient, but obediently raised his hands and began ticking items off on his fingers.

“Fine. I turned Betty down when she wanted to be a couple, but then flipped out when you guys got together, acting like you’d stolen my girlfriend or something.” His index finger went up. Tick.

“When I found out you’d spent the night with Betty, I promptly asked _Veronica_ to homecoming, knowing Betty got really jealous and declared her love for me the last time Veronica and I were sort of… you know…” he trailed off awkwardly, but Jughead nodded his understanding. Archie’s middle finger joined his index finger in his tally. Tick.

“But I didn’t tell Veronica when I asked her out that I was feeling weird about you and Betty.” Tick. Now three fingers were enumerating his sins. “Then I blew all of you, plus Kevin, off at lunch because I was feeling weird about everything.” Tick.

Jughead had had enough. He swallowed his mouthful and put up a hand to stop Archie’s litany. “I get the picture,” he said. “You’re a villain of Disney-esque proportions. You’re a one-man mashup of Gaston and… uh… Maleficent and… uh… the sea witch… Why are all of Disney’s villains women?” he mused inconsequentially, then shook his head. “Not the point. You are, clearly, beyond redemption. Alcatraz is too good for the likes of you.”

Archie rolled his eyes. “ _Now_ who’s a jerk?” he asked, but his relief at Jughead’s reaction – or non-reaction – was almost palpable.

“Still you,” Jughead answered promptly, “but that’s nothing new.” He waggled his eyebrows at Archie, who laughed reluctantly.

Jughead got more serious, though. “What was it all about?” he asked. “Are you really… jealous… about Betty and me?”

“Yes… no… I don’t know,” Archie groaned. “I meant it when I told Betty I didn’t feel that way about her. And I still don’t! At least… I don’t _think_ I do. But it does feel… weird, seeing you with her.

“I don’t know. Veronica thinks I just took it for granted that Betty would always have a thing for me, even if we weren’t together. And she may be right about that. It feels at least a _little_ bit true.

“And I definitely _have_ been used to being the most important person in Betty’s life, for years. Even before she, you know, liked me that way… we were best friends. We made a telephone in second grade with tin cans and string that we stretched between our windows. And we used that thing every night right up until I got my walkie talkies the summer we were 12. And then we used those until we got our cell phones. And now? All of a sudden, when she wants to talk late at night… it isn't to me. I didn’t really know how much I counted on being important to her until I… wasn’t.

“I’m jealous, dude, for sure,” Archie summed up. “But it’s not because I want Betty to be with me… not exactly, at least. I just…”

“You just want things to be the way they were before,” Jughead finished for him, feeling like he understood better than he’d expected to. 

Archie nodded reluctantly. “AND Ms. Grundy left town, and Val dumped me, and Veronica doesn’t seem to want any more from me than that one evening in Cheryl Blossom’s closet. And here you two are looking… blissful. I’m starting to feel like I’m going to be _alone_ forever, and you two just look like… forever.

“Not to mention that I liked feeling like I was being sort of… noble, giving Betty up. Like, I was leaving her to find someone… better… more worthy of her.”

“And instead she found me?” Jughead asked dryly. “What a disappointment for you. For the record, you’re back to being a jerk now.” His tone was humourous, though, and without heat.

But Archie shook his head vehemently. “You’re missing the point, Juggie,” he said. “So long as she was perfect, and so long as she kept _waiting_ for someone perfect, she’d keep on being there for me… my best friend… listening on a tin can and a piece of string. So long as she waited for someone perfect, I didn’t have to love her or lose her. I could just… have it my own way.

“You see?” he concluded. “Veronica’s right; I really _am_ a jerk.”

Jughead shrugged, though. “So long as you’re a jerk and not a friend I've got to lose in order to be with Betty, I can live with it,” he replied. “I’m a jerk sometimes too… on purpose, usually. God knows FP can be a jerk. I figure you’re as entitled to jerkdom as we are.

“Besides,” he added, smiling a little, “you bought me onion rings to go with my burger. Of the man who does that, much can be forgiven.”

***

“You’re really in love with her, aren’t you?” Archie asked Jughead as they walked home together, hours later, past shops and houses whose lights had long since been extinguished for the night.

Their conversation had been wide-ranging and relaxed as they lingered in their booth at the Chock-Lit shop. It had been like old times… before Jughead and Betty, and Ms. Grundy, and the road trip that wasn’t. Just the two of them, talking about everything and nothing over an endless parade of milkshakes.

But even though Betty’s name hadn’t come up in at least a couple of hours, Jughead had no difficulty discerning who Archie was talking about. And somehow, the darkness, coupled with the mellowing effects of good food and good company, made it easier to be honest.

“Completely,” he confirmed. “Profoundly. Irrevocably. It’s… unexpected. But I do love a good plot twist.”

They were turning into their street now and somehow, despite the darkness, Archie caught Jughead’s quick, assessing glance towards the Coopers’ house.

“And you're going back there tonight,” he guessed. “You’re just waiting for Angsty Alice to go to bed, and then you’re going straight back to Betty.”

Jughead shrugged, trying to act casual and hoping the darkness covered his blush. He’d had a great time tonight… but he was starting to miss Betty. And the idea of sleeping without her just seemed depressing.

“Oh, go ahead,” Archie said, giving Jughead a shove towards the Coopers’ house as he himself turned towards his own yard. “Alice is definitely asleep by now, and there’s no point sneaking out of my room for _my_ benefit.”

Jughead had to laugh, and he exchanged a brief, awkward, yet completely necessary one-armed hug with Archie before heading towards the welcome he knew he’d find at Betty’s window.

For a day that had started so badly, this one was ending pretty perfectly.


	13. Chapter 13

### Chapter 13

It was rare that Betty woke up before Jughead. Normally, his presence worked more powerfully on her than the sleeping prescription her mother used to force her to take, quieting her mind and sinking her into a state of profound relaxation… without the morning grogginess that the mom-sponsored meds had caused.

But this morning, her eyes were open before first light. Oddly, for her, she didn’t wake with a start of anxiety, a “to do” list on her mind, and an immediate sense that she was already running behind or failing to deliver in some way. Instead, the peace of the night felt like it had crept into the morning, allowing her to greet the day with joy rather than fear. Jughead was warm and solid beside her in the bed, his arms comforting around her. And instead of waking up in a state of panic and diving into a day of manic activity, she took a few moments to bask in this unusual state of grace.

Across the room, her clock informed her it was almost 40 minutes until her alarm would go off and her mother would charge into the room armed with an agenda, and a determination to pull Betty along in her riptide. And until then? Well, she fully intended to stay wrapped in Juggie’s arms for as long as she possibly could.

He’d arrived late last night… later than usual… but he’d been smiling. It was good to see him smile… good to hear that Archie’s strange hostility had blown over… good to know they were all friends again. Almost as far back as she could remember, the three of them had been friends. And amidst the shadows and suspicion that seemed to be enveloping her town, and the fault lines fracturing her family, it was reassuring to feel that there were some things – some relationships – she could still count on.

Her fingers practically itched for a pen. She wanted to set down in her diary the peculiar grace of this morning, try to make a pool of it, using her words, so she could dip back into it when her life inevitably got dark and scary once again.

But, for perhaps the first time since she’d learned to write, there was something she wanted even more. She wanted to stay right here, exactly as she was, and drink it in for as long as possible. Her diary could wait, she decided. Why settle for words, when she could bathe herself in the experience instead?

And so she lay there, immersed in the moment, as the darkness gradually lightened to grey.

It was a flock of wild geese, calling harshly to one another as they winged their way south that eventually woke Jughead. His eyes fluttered open and, as they met hers, filled with a light that kindled an answering spark deep within her.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

Instead of answering, she lifted her head from his chest and kissed him, a soft, lingering kiss that stole her own breath. It seemed to build in intensity as her lips clung to his, stirring unfamiliar feelings and driving her to fit her own body more closely to his as one of his hands slid gently into her hair, the other anchoring her firmly at the hip.

At last he pulled back, laughing shakily as he did so. “ _Very_ good morning,” he amended his earlier greeting, his tone slightly breathless. “Assuming it’s still morning,” he added, looking at her with dreamy eyes. “Is it still morning?”

Her alarm clock chose that moment to blare to life, answering his question and shattering both the moment and Betty’s sense of peace.

“Shit,” she hissed in desperation, the bliss of a few moments earlier all but forgotten.

“Shit?” he teased her lazily. “I didn’t think you even knew that word!”

“SHIT!” she hissed again with even greater intensity. “My mother is going to walk through that door in about 45 seconds!”

Jughead’s lazy good humour vanished. Escape was impossible. Even if he could clear the window in time, there was no way he could make it back inside the Andrews’ house. And Alice Cooper was unlikely to regard finding him on her lawn or clinging to the side of her house with significantly greater favour than finding him her daughter’s bed. Maybe the closet?

But Betty saw the direction of his glance and shook her head vehemently. “She might bring laundry,” she whispered.

Out of both time and alternatives, Jughead dropped to the floor, and rolled under the bed, taking his flip flops with him. Betty’s elaborate dust ruffle dropped back into place, concealing him from view, a split second before Betty’s door burst open and her mother strode into the room, her steps clacking from the high heels she already wore.

“Still in bed?” she asked, an edge to her tone. “Time to get moving.”

“Yes, Mom,” Betty answered obediently, and he heard her bare feet hit the floor mere inches away from him. The next sound he heard was the creak of the closet door, and he thanked God fervently that he wasn’t crouched in there hoping to escape notice.

“I need to see you and Veronica in the _Blue and Gold_ office before school this morning,” Alice continued, her voice slightly muffled as it came from the closet.”

“Yes, Mom,” Betty said again, and a moment later, Alice’s pumps clacked across the room and the door closed behind her.

Almost immediately, the dust ruffle was lifted and he saw Betty’s big, blue eyes peering at him with urgency. “Quickly,” she whispered. “Let’s get you out of here before she comes back. We’ve got about four minutes before she comes to tell me to hurry, and ask whether I’ve taken my Adderall.”

And with a last, stolen kiss, Jughead was gone.

***

“Ronnie, wait up!” Archie caught up to Veronica in the hallway before classes began. After their discussion the previous day – what Jughead had dubbed the “jerk-tervention” – and the transformation wrought in his friendship with Jughead by acknowledging and apologizing for his own bad behaviour, he was determined to make amends wherever they were due.

And it had occurred to him in the night – a long and largely sleepless night, during which Jughead’s air mattress had remained conspicuously vacant – that he might have more to apologize to Veronica for than asking her to homecoming while under the influence of a jealous rage. So… here he was.

“Hey, I just wanted to explain why I didn’t call you after the party,” he said. “My mom showed up out of nowhere…”

“It’s fine,” Veronica laughed, apparently unconcerned. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Wait, Veronica,” Archie put his hand on her arm, not prepared to be dismissed so lightly, “are we seriously not going to talk about what happened between us?” He might be late, coming to her for this conversation. But it mattered to him. After a long night of reflection – and determinedly reminding himself not to think about what Betty and Jughead might be doing – he’d come to a few conclusions, and one of them was that Veronica was the girl who made him feel most alive. Being with her just _fit_ , without any of the guilt or weight of secrecy he’d felt with Geraldine Grundy… without the anxiety he’d felt about living up to Val’s artistic expectations… without the sense of unworthiness he’d always imagined he’d feel if he ever attempted a romantic liaison with Betty. Being with Veronica felt right, and easy, and he knew now that she was the one he wanted.

Or at least, he _thought_ she was.

He was at least 75 per cent sure.

But, while he didn’t think of himself as an arrogant guy, it simply hadn’t occurred to him that a night he remembered with such a heady mix of heat and sweetness wouldn’t inspire Veronica with a desire equal to his own to figure out what this chemistry between them might develop into.

“Are we seriously not going to talk about what happened between us?” he asked in disbelief.

“Archie,” she answered, suddenly serious as she dragged him out of the current of traffic and towards the relative seclusion in front of the lockers, “we had a moment. A beautiful, but fleeting, moment.”

“You spent the night,” Archie reminded her, hoping his hurt wasn’t too obvious in his tone. Sure, it was only a moment cosmically, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t build it into something more.

“We crashed… in _separate_ beds,” she countered.

“I don’t regret anything we said, Veronica, or did,” Archie persisted.

“Me neither,” she agreed, glancing away as if suddenly and uncharacteristically shy. “But… I think you might be… boyfriend-worthy.”

“I agree,” Archie hastened to press his advantage. “Let’s test that theory at the homecoming dance.” Sure, she’d said yesterday that she wouldn’t go with him. But today? Today he knew what he wanted… probably… and he wouldn’t give up so easily.

“Unfortunately,” she replied, “I don’t have the bandwidth to explore anything with anyone right now.”

“Well, in that case,” Archie persisted, determined to wrest some kind of concession from her, “what if we just finally got to sing that duet together?” He saw her getting ready for another denial, so he pressed on. “I kind of told my mom I was performing.”

At that moment, Veronica was distracted for a moment by an incoming text message on her phone. She glanced at the screen, and when she raised her eyes to his again, she seemed to have withdrawn from him in some indefinable way.

“Look Archie, I’m _sorry_ ,” she said, and he actually believed she was. “But for a million reasons, we’re going to have to pretend our moment never happened. I’ll see you later.”

And she walked away, leaving him alone in the midst of the crowd.


	14. Chapter 14

### Chapter 14

“Hey, you!” Jughead’s voice caught Betty’s attention amidst the chaos of trying to transform the Riverdale High gymnasium into a high-end event venue… before study hall ended and she had to go to her calculus class.

She was still seething over Principal Weatherbee’s refusal to allow her to delegate decorating to Ethel; since when was it irresponsible to get more students involved in school events? But she’d noticed a distinct cooling in the Principal’s behaviour towards her since she began dating Jughead… an observation that only increased her ire.

If any other class had followed study hall, she could have skipped it with impunity. Her teachers would happily have excused her in light of the dance tonight, and she had no fear about missing a lesson… or five in any of her _other_ subjects.

But calculus was a different matter. It was decidedly not in her wheelhouse, as her father would have expressed it, and she’d enrolled only at her mother’s insistence. Not that she was bad at it, precisely. But maintaining her “A” in calculus took more effort than all the other “A’s” on her transcript combined.

So, with both delegating and ditching unattainable, she had no choice but to complete the transformation of the gym within the time allowed her by study hall, plus her lunch break. And she was still hoping to spend lunchtime with Jughead.

As always, Jughead’s greeting brought a smile to Betty’s face. But the combination of time pressure and righteous indignation was a potent one, and his greeting failed to loosen the knot of anxiety in her stomach or the sense that her lungs were constricted under a heavy weight, preventing her from drawing a deep breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the dinner?” Jughead continued as he reached her, still juggling a box of decorations as he paused to talk with her.

“What?” Betty asked him, too startled to look for a more polite way of expressing herself. In the fraction of a second before Jughead replied, she was wracking her brain for a forgotten detail, something she was supposed to plan or do, that would make sense of his comment. But at his next words, clarity dawned, bringing with it a wave of near-crippling despair.

“Your Mom,” (“ _shit_ ,” thought Betty fervently) basically tackled me in the hall to invite my dad and I over before the dance.” Apparently noticing her frozen expression, he stopped himself. “Did you… not know?” he asked her uncertainly, his half smile disappearing as he recognized her distress.

“No, no, of course,” Betty answered him, her voice sounding tinny and distant to her own ears as a lifetime habit of not disappointing anyone asserted itself, short-circuiting the connection between her brain and her mouth. “I’ve just, you know, got so many,” she cleared her throat, wishing for air, for water, for something to break this nightmare of impending doom. “Plates are… spinning,” she concluded inanely.

She struggled to stay focused on what Jughead was saying, on the sweet hopefulness of his smile, but it was hard to hear him over the roaring in her ears and the relentless echo of her mother’s voice inside her mind. “ _Whoever is not in this room is on the table as a possible murder suspect._ ”

“I think it’s important… for _us_ , you know?” Jughead was concluding.

“Yeah,” she agreed, only half sure she’d caught all of his enthusiastic comments. She fought to bring a convincing smile to her own face, even as she struggled to ground herself in the peace she’d felt just a few short hours ago in Juggie’s arms. But it felt like that solid ground was slipping away from her as she was dragged under by the tsunami of her mother’s machinations.

***

Dinner was awkward, full of tense silences punctuated by barbed comments and pointed questions. Delicious as the food was, there was nothing even remotely comfortable or nourishing about the company gathered around the Cooper table that night… and that was _before_ the hostess’s estranged husband showed up, apparently at Betty’s invitation.

Yet Jughead still couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t resist a curl of private satisfaction deep within him, to be there, inside her home… openly invited, not having snuck in… acknowledged by her parents as someone of importance to Betty… someone with a place in her life and maybe in her future. If this was the gauntlet he had to run in order to claim a place in Betty’s life… well, then… bring on the awkward.

Although “awkward” didn’t fully account for Betty’s level of discomfort. He had a disquieting sense that Betty was suffering more acutely than social experimentation and her mother’s piranha-like conversational style could explain. She seemed on edge, tightly strung, almost brittle.

Yet when their eyes met across the table, hers still held that light that was coming to mean “home” to him.. Whatever was weighing on her, it wasn’t about him. Which meant that he could help her to figure it out… later.

And as uncomfortable as dinner was … right up until it crossed the boundary into full-on weird… the drive to the dance was kind of wonderful. Betty seemed to have left her anxiety at home. She was more relaxed, more herself, than she’d been all evening. She and FP chatted like old friends all the way to the school apparently quite at ease with one another.

Jughead had felt strange at first about FP’s offer to drive them. But given that he had neither a car nor a license to drive one, it wasn’t as if there were a lot of alternatives. But it was Betty who’d enthusiastically seconded the idea. She’d shown no dismay, either at being dropped off by a parent, or at arriving at the dance in FP’s battered pickup truck. Instead, she’d seemed genuinely thrilled at FP’s offer. And her behaviour towards him was both respectful and warm. Under that treatment, FP blossomed, and showed the very best version of himself… the dad whose brief appearances were among Jughead’s most treasured memories. Often as he failed between times, FP at his best was pretty great.

By the time they arrived at the school and FP admonished him to “be a gentleman,” Jughead felt like he was living a chapter out of someone else’s book… someone normal, whose parents loved him and teased him and drove him and his girlfriend to dances. Someone like Archie… or Betty… or any of the other kids who’d never lived in the control booth at the drive-in or under the stairs at the school because it offered more safety than home, the ones whose lives – probably mundane in their own eyes – had seemed impossibly charmed from Jughead’s vantage point in the shadows.

And while there was lots he was okay with… even proud of… in his status as an outsider, it felt pretty great to be on the inside tonight.

So much so that he threw caution to the wind and gave voice to the thought that had been uppermost in his mind since he last visit to his dad’s trailer.

“Betty, would you mind giving us just a minute?” he asked as he sheltered her with an umbrella, standing just outside FP’s truck.

“No, of course. Take your time,” she answered, taking the umbrella from him as he stepped back into the truck. As he closed the door, she walked up the stairs of Riverdale High to wait for him at the entrance.

“Look, I’ve been thinking,” he told his dad hesitantly. “I mean, if it’s all right with you… I could come back. I could… I could come back home.” Archie could say it was too soon, to go slowly all he wanted. But Archie _had_ his father, his home. Jughead wanted that for himself. And maybe, having Jughead there, would help to keep FP on this new path he seemed to be attempting.

“I’ll do you one better,” FP answered. “It’s time the whole family gets back together. Us… your mom… Jellybean.” Jughead’s heart soared, until his father continued. “I got a sweet setup in Toledo. There’s decent work there…”

“Toledo?” Jughead echoed, focusing on the single word that changed everything. He cast a quick, involuntary glance at the school… at Betty, before asking, “Why not Riverdale?”

“Because of dinners like we just had, and what you’re writing about in your book,” his dad answered, as if it were obvious. “Hell, you know what happens to people like us in Riverdale, Jug. We get chewed up.”

***

Jughead’s head was spinning as he stepped out of the truck. 

FP, clean and sober and with steady work… the family back together… this was the stuff of dreams for him. The idea of seeing Jellybean every day, of prowling through thrift shops for vintage records together… of watching his mom finally get her GED… it was all so seductive, the life he’d dreamed of on lonely nights when he’d taken shelter wherever he could, knowing that no one would be coming to check and make sure he was okay.

And yet, there at the top of the stairs, waiting for him in a dress the colour of moonlight, was the embodiment of _another_ dream… one that he’d secretly cherished through some of the darkest and loneliest nights of his life… one that had inexplicably, miraculously come true.

And when Betty’s face lit up with a smile as he reached her, as she slipped her hand into his, he knew that Toledo – anywhere really – could never be home if it took him away from her.


	15. Chapter 15

### Chapter 15

The problem with dreams, Jughead reflected bitterly less than two hours later, was the heartbreak they caused when they ended.

He was running, alone in the night, with no idea where he was going other than “away.” He had a stitch in his side, but that physical pain was a welcome distraction from the agony inside him, the anguish he was trying desperately to outrun.

FP, arrested for murder…

… Archie and Veronica, spying on him, on his Dad…

… Betty’s family, not welcoming him as he’d believed, but scrutinizing him even as they got him out of the way…

… Betty, a part of it all… keeping secrets… not trusting him.

He bit his lip to keep from sobbing aloud, and pushed himself harder, faster, sweat beginning to pool inside the collar of the shirt Archie had given him – the one Archie had bought for homecoming last year, but could no longer wear thanks to his newly muscled chest. The pumping of his arms strained the shoulder seams of the jacket FP had bought him out of his first two weeks’ wages.

“Your girl is really something,” he’d said at the time, waving off Jughead’s protests. “If you’re taking the lady dancing, the least you can do is look like you want to be there.” FP had been so proud to be able to buy that suit.

FP who was, at this very moment, in custody for murder.

Resolutely refusing to think, Jughead ran. Under the circumstances, “away” was more than enough of a mandate. “To” didn’t matter at all.

***

“I don’t want you here.” Jughead’s voice was dangerously quiet as he spoke from the shadows of his father’s ransacked trailer.

It hadn’t taken that long, actually, to find him. Once she’d established that he wasn’t at Pop’s, the bus station, or waiting in her bedroom, FP’s place was the next logical stop. As Betty’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see him, sitting on the floor, his back to the counter, every line of his posture eloquent of dejection.

He looked small, sprawled there in the shadows, and relentlessly alone, and her heart tore just a little at the sight of him… at his isolation… at the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Well, we’re even then,” she answered just as softly, “because I don’t especially want you here either.”

“This is my _home_ ,” he told her bitterly. “This is where I _belong_ … along with the rest of the riff raff… the people whose word you can’t trust… the ones you have to watch and check up on every minute…”

“Stop it!” Betty snapped at him. “Stop talking about yourself that way! Stop talking about your _father_ that way! Stop talking about _me_ that way!

“You _belong_ wherever the hell you choose to be. I _like_ your father, and he has been nothing but nice to me… which is more than I can say for _you_ right now!" Jughead flinched at that, but she ignored it. "And I love you, and I have _believed_ in you from the very beginning, and I have believed in your dad from the moment you told me that _you_ did.” Jughead scoffed at that, turning away from her, and Betty got louder.

“I _did_ believe in him, and I told my mother I did when she tried to enlist me in her little campaign to investigate FP. I flat-out refused to be part of it. I'll grant you, I was an idiot to think that would stop her... to think it would mean _anything_ to her. But I did.” 

Her voice became quieter again, but no less passionate. “You don’t believe me? That’s fine, Juggie. I can’t _force_ you to trust me. But _I_ trust _you_ , and I’m going to tell you the truth, and that isn’t going to change.

“I’m not perfect… remember? That means sometimes I’m going to get it wrong, or disappoint you or hurt you. And I _hate_ that! I don’t _want_ to, but it’s going to happen anyway, because that’s what not being perfect means. You said you wanted _all_ of me, imperfections and all. Well… you got it. But sometimes, that comes with a price tag, and _this_ is what that looks like.

“You’re mad at me? Fine. I’m pretty mad at myself right now, too, if you want to know the truth. I got played by my mom… _again_. Getting our friends to search FP’s home while he sat at our table? I never even _imagined_ she'd stoop so low... or that they'd let her!

“I got it all wrong, right from the start. I trusted too much that inviting my dad to dinner would distract her from interrogating _your_ dad. 

"I let her talk me out of telling you why she invited you. I missed every trick, and I ruined everything because I got manipulated by her again, just like I always do, and this time it hurt you instead of only me. I’m stupid and naïve and I fall for her games _every_ time…”Betty’s voice broke, but before she could go on, Jughead was on his feet, grabbing her hands in his.

“Don’t do that. It’s okay… you don’t have to do that,” he was murmuring over and over again.

Confused, Betty stopped talking and stared at him, but all of his attention was focused on her hands. It was only when she followed his gaze that she saw the droplets of blood that were dripping steadily from her clenched fists to FP’s carpet below.

“Please don’t do that, Jughead was still whispering as he kissed her clenched hands. “Just let go… just let it all go…”

Slowly, stiffly, Betty forced her fingers to unfurl, trying to turn her palms away, to hide the damage. But Jughead wasn’t having it. With gentle persuasion, he opened her hands, palm up, to both of their views.

Jughead made a low, sharp sound of anguish, as if he’d just been stabbed. Betty couldn’t feel her hands yet, but the look of absolute devastation on his face broke her heart, causing pain of a different sort.

The gouges she’d been digging in her hands were the deepest yet, blood still welling red and rich from the crescent-shaped wounds. And these were only the latest; in all, three sets of fresh crescents crossed her palms, the others shallower, but obviously very recent. The stress of this hellish day was written there, plainly visible in the mangled skin of her hands.

For the moment, Jughead’s anger, his seething frustration, were forgotten, all of his emotional intensity focused instead on Betty and her ravaged hands. The look on his face was more than she could bear, and she tried again to hide her hands from his tear-filled eyes. But he wasn’t allowing it.

Without a word, still cradling her hands like a wounded bird, he led her to FP’s tiny bathroom. With the ease of familiarity, he rummaged in the medicine cabinet, coming up almost immediately with what he was looking for.

He closed the toilet lid, then coaxed her down to sit on it, her hands palm-up in her lap as he knelt in front of her. For a few moments, there was silence apart from an occasional sharp hiss of breath from Betty as he swabbed her hands with peroxide, cleaning them gently but thoroughly before coating them with ointment and binding them with gauze. At last, he was finished. He rose without a word, washed his hands, and put away the supplies in the medicine cabinet before sinking to his knees in front of her, his face in her lap, and giving way to deep, wracking sobs.

She couldn’t have said how long it went on… a moment? an eternity? She didn’t even try to keep track. She just rested her bandaged hands on his head, her palms on his ever-present beanie, her finger tips stroking lightly through the dark waves of his hair while his body convulsed with harsh sobs that seemed to be ripped from the depths of his being.

At last, the shaking of his shoulders stilled as the awful, tortured sounds of his sobs gave way to deep, shuddering breaths. Betty didn’t speak; she just continued lightly stroking his hair as he grew calm. Finally, Jughead raised his puffy eyes to hers.

“It just got to be too much,” he said simply, not apologizing for his tears, just stating facts. “This entire day has been one freaky fun-house ride of feelings. Dad dropping off that suit this morning, your mom inviting us to dinner, Dad wanting to get the family back together… in freaking Toledo! The dance, then finding you and Archie and Veronica together… then the arrest. I’ve lived some of the best and the worst moments of my entire life, just since breakfast. And then seeing how upset you were, seeing you turning all that frustration against yourself… it just flipped a circuit breaker, you know? System overload. Reboot required.”

“And you’re rebooted now?” Betty asked him. He nodded. “I wish I could do that,” she said softly.

“Do what? Fall apart?” Jughead asked wryly.

She shrugged. “Fall apart… cry it out… let it go… whatever you want to call it. If I could do that, maybe FP’s bandage supply wouldn’t be verging on a critical shortage.

At the mention of FP, a cloud passed over Jughead’s features.

“I didn’t lie to you,” he said, startling Betty with the abrupt change of subjects. “I really _didn’t_ think he was a killer.”

“Oh, God!” Betty gasped, suddenly remembering her brief encounter at Pop’s with Archie and Veronica, their story of what they’d found – or not found – at the trailer, and one of the reasons she’d been looking for him so urgently. “He’s not! Jughead… FP is being framed.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and the next, which should be up tomorrow) mostly conform to what happened in episode 11, and the next chapter tiptoes into the beginning of episode 12 as well. I have deviated in a couple of key respects, though, to make space for the conversations I wanted to have happen. In this version, after Betty sees Archie and Veronica (the first time) at Pop's and they tell her about the lock box, they split up. She goes to look for Jughead, while sending them to tell the police what they found, rather than all of them going together to their parents. Otherwise, I think I've conformed to canon for the show... pain and all.

### Chapter 16

“Are you sure we shouldn’t go to the police?” Jughead asked for the third time since Betty had explained to him what Archie and Veronica had told her when she saw them at Pop’s.

“And tell them what, Jug?” Betty answered with unflagging patience, her head resting against his shoulder as they sat side-by-side on FP’s couch. “That Archie and Veronica told _us_ they searched the trailer before the police, and there was no lock box here? The police need to know, for sure… which is why Archie and Veronica went to the station while I came looking for you. You and I don’t have _any_ evidence, _or_ any new information to offer.”

“I just…” Jughead began, and then stopped. They’d been over this, and Betty was right; there was nothing he could do for FP right now.

“You just want to help,” Betty finished for him. “Your Dad’s in jail, he’s innocent, and it’s killing you not to be able to fix it.”

Jughead heaved a sigh. It was a relief to hear Betty articulate his predicament so clearly. “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “It is. But since I can’t do anything about it, I should see about getting you home. I doubt we’ll find a cab at this hour, so we have a long walk ahead of us.”

Betty raised her eyebrows at him. “What? _You_ can stay over at _my_ place, but _I_ can’t stay over at yours?” she challenged.

“I _can’t_ ‘stay over’ at your place,” Jughead corrected her, even as he smiled at her calling FP’s trailer ‘his place.’ “I can _sneak into_ your place after Mama Cooper falls asleep and then steal away again before dawn. But that’s hardly a compelling precedent for you to stay out all night… not to mention crashing in a place that’s all wrapped up in sheriff’s tape and technically considered a crime scene right now. I’m fairly sure that scenario contains the seeds of an Alice Cooper conniption.”

Betty rolled her eyes even as she glanced around the room that had been so roughly searched. “Let her connipt,” she said. “She probably won’t anyway. She didn’t want me to go out looking for you tonight. I went anyway. Which means that even if I _do_ go home, chances are I’ll be locked out.”

“Locked out?” Jughead echoed, unsure whether she was joking. “She wouldn’t lock you out of your own home at night.”

Betty laughed bitterly. “No?” she asked.

“It’s happened before, hasn’t it?” Jughead asked softly, and Betty nodded without quite meeting his eyes. “Where did you go?” he asked her, hating the idea of her alone on the streets at night.

Betty shrugged, looking away as if sorry she’d spoken. “I slept in my old treehouse a couple of times. Sat in a booth at Pop’s once or twice when it was too cold to be out. Once I stayed at Ethel’s. I said my parents were away and I’d accidentally locked myself out.”

“God… Betty,” Jughead breathed. This revelation was so at odds with the image the Coopers presented to the world, he could hardly process it. Rough as his own childhood had been – and allowing that he’d voluntarily left home for months at a time – he couldn’t imagine either of his parents locking the door against him. “Has it really happened that much?”

“Jughead, _you_ may accept that I’m not perfect.” Betty was speaking into his shoulder now. “That doesn’t mean my _family_ does.”

There was a finality in her tone that told him she was done talking about this. He desperately wanted to pursue the topic, but could sense this wasn’t the right time. So, he changed the subject, striving to lighten the tone at the same time.

“Well, if we’re staying here tonight, a wardrobe change may be indicated,” he said. “Fetching as you look in that gown, it’s not ideally suited to overnighting in a drafty trailer.”

Betty matched his casual tone, adding a theatrical British accent. “Sadly, Mr. Jones, it appears that the car service has misplaced my bags.”

He grinned at her, and went into the bedroom to rummage in the dresser that had been his before he left. It didn’t take long to unearth some threadbare sweats that he had left behind when he moved to the drive-in last spring, and he handed them to Betty, keeping a pair of FP’s flannel pants and a t-shirt for himself.

With a smile of thanks, Betty took the clothes into the bathroom to change. She was back in minutes, though, blushing furiously.

“Can you… ummm… help me?” she asked, again not quite meeting his gaze. “I can’t manage the…” she waved her hand vaguely towards the back of her dress.

“Oh… of course.” Jughead blushed too as Betty turned her back to him, sweeping aside her golden hair to give him access to the little hooks that fastened the neckline of her dress at the back.

“I can see why you need help,” he muttered, forgetting his momentary shyness as he struggled with the closures. “ _I_ can barely cope with them, and they’re right in front of me.” At last, the last hook gave way, leaving the top of the dress gaping open, with only the zipper at the waist keeping it on Betty’s slim form.

“Can you… uh…” Jughead cleared his throat, his confusion returning as he faced the creamy expanse of skin he’d just bared. “Can you manage from here?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Betty said and she hurried back into the bathroom to change.

It suddenly occurred to Jughead that this could be a very long night.


	17. Chapter 17

### Chapter 17

It was dark when Betty opened her eyes, and at first she didn’t remember where she was. She wasn’t afraid, though. She could feel Jughead, warm, solid, and reassuring beside her. They had fallen asleep in FP’s bed, exhausted from the intense emotions of the night, and the fear of what tomorrow might bring. But it seemed that oblivion had been short-lived. Although Jughead hadn’t moved or spoken, she knew that he, too, was awake.

There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, a thousand more to ask, but in the stillness of the night they all crystallized down to one thought at the forefront of her mind.

“Toledo?” she said, and her hesitancy made the single word a question. Back at the school, during that nightmare scene in the hallway just before Kevin burst in to inform them of FP’s arrest, Jughead had said something about passing up Toledo to be with her. There hadn’t been a moment since then to clarify what he’d meant.

Jughead sighed, settling his arm more securely around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her forehead before he answered.

“It was a pipe dream,” he said heavily. “And it probably doesn’t matter now anyway, what with my dad being all… incarcerated and such.” Betty didn’t answer. 

After a few minutes, Jughead sighed again. “You know, I can actually _feel_ you waiting for me to say more,” he said, half-laughing. “You’re using your ‘fill the silence’ trick on _me_ now, hunh?” 

Betty still didn’t answer, but snuggled a little closer, giving him a quick peck on the cheek to show him she was still engaged.

“All right,” Jughead reached up his free hand, the one not holding her, to rub his brow. The room was too dark for her to see the characteristic gesture, but she could feel it. “When I asked you to give me a minute with my dad before the dance?” Betty nodded in response to the question in his tone. She remembered.

“I told him…” Jughead’s voice caught in his throat, but after a moment, he continued. “I asked him if I could come back home.” Betty’s heart ached to hear the raw pain in his voice. “He said yes… but he wanted us to move to Toledo, to be with Mom and Jellybean again… to start over. He said there was no future for us here… that we’d never amount to more than trailer trash unless we left.”

Betty made a small, involuntary sound of protest at his last words, but otherwise didn’t interrupt.

“Okay, he didn’t use that term,” Jughead acknowledged. “But it’s what he meant.

“Anyway, _that_ was what I’d wanted to talk to you about after the dance. I wanted us to figure out what to do about it… you know, _together_.”

“Oh, Juggie,” Betty sighed. “And then before we even got to talk about it…”

“All Hell broke loose, yeah,” Jughead finished for her.

“And I wasn’t there for you,” Betty mourned. “I was so caught up in figuring out what my mom was doing, why she was whispering in corners with Veronica and Archie… I wasn’t even there when you needed me most.”

“You really didn’t know,” Jughead asked, his tone carefully neutral, “about them searching the place.”

“Jughead, _no_ ,” Betty replied without hesitation. I knew my mom invited you guys so she could interrogate your dad over dinner. And I _should_ have told you the truth about that when you told me she’d invited you. It just… it seemed like such an awful thing to admit about my own mother. And she said you’d be hurt and disappointed if I told you, and… instead of telling you, I tried to do damage control. I tried to set things up so she couldn’t be too obnoxious to FP, and you’d still come for dinner. Because I really _did_ want you there tonight… _both_ of you. None of which changes that I should have told you the truth.

“But the rest of it? Getting our friends involved? Using the dinner party to give them time to search FP’s home? No. _No_. If I had even _suspected_ that, I _would_ have told you and FP.

“I messed up, Juggie. _Again_. Definitely. And I _hate_ that I let you down. But I promise you, I would _never_ have kept it a secret if I’d known that _anyone_ was going to violate FP’s privacy like that.”

“It’s weird,”Jughead said after a pause. His tone didn’t sound quite natural, but at least he was still talking to her. He hadn’t responded to anything she’d said… hadn’t given any indication as to whether he even believed her. But he also hadn’t walked away. “I’m still pissed at what Archie did. Way _beyond_ pissed, actually. I’m _furious_. And yet there’s a very good chance that his betrayal will keep my dad out of prison.”

“It wasn’t just Archie, Jughead,” Betty reminded him gently. She felt Jughead’s huff of breath against her hair.

“He’s the one that hurts,” he answered, and she could hear a shrug in his voice. “Your mother’s _always_ been bat guano crazy, Betts, and I don’t have big expectations of the new girl.”

There wasn’t much Betty could say to that. And, while she and Veronica _were_ close enough for her betrayal to cut Betty just as deeply as Archie’s, she shared Jughead’s confusion. No matter how they’d acquired it, Archie and Veronica’s information might be the key to freeing FP. It seemed churlish to hold a grudge under the circumstances. And yet… the thought of her two best friends, conspiring with her mother, turned her stomach.

After a few moments, during which no magical solution to their dilemma arose, she returned to her original topic.

“It doesn’t _have_ to be a pipe dream, Juggie,” she said. “Toledo, I mean. FP is innocent. It might take some time to prove it, but sooner or later, he’ll be free. And I can’t imagine this experience will have softened his views on Riverdale,” she added with gallows humour.

Jughead didn’t answer right away. “I wasn’t going to go,” he said at last. “I mean, I wanted to talk to you about it… and obviously, I’d have to talk to Fred, too, if I was going to camp on his floor for another two or three years until graduation. But… I didn’t want to go if it meant leaving you.”

Betty’s eyes filled with tears, though she wasn’t sure whether they were welling in response to that evidence of his love for her, or to his use of the past tense.

“Oh, Juggie,” she managed to say, reaching up to thread her fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, careful not to displace the bandages he’d so lovingly wrapped around her hands. “You were willing to give up so much for me. And then I let you down so badly.” Her voice was small in the dark room, the pain too deep for the relief of noisy sobs.

“Would you have wanted me to stay?” he asked her just as quietly.

“God, Jug!” Betty exclaimed. “How can I answer that? You are the _best_ thing in my life right now… the one person I can always count on. You and Polly and her babies… you’re _everything_ to me! Of _course_ I don’t want you to go; I can’t even _imagine_ being in this town without you.

“But… I _love_ you, Jughead. I want you to be happy… to have everything you want. And you’ve always wanted your family back together, a fresh start. I don’t want you to give _anything_ up for me, and certainly not _that_.

“I don’t want you trapped in a town that never gives you a chance. _God!_ After watching how eager Sheriff Keller was to pin Jason’s murder, first on you, then on your dad… I can’t even blame FP for wanting to leave. Has Keller even _investigated_ anyone other than you two?” Betty shook her head before returning to the main question.

“What can I possibly say, Juggie? It’s an impossible choice.”

Jughead pulled her almost roughly into his arms and kissed her. It was totally unlike their usual sweet and dreamy kisses. This was fierce and raw and tasted equally of passion and heartbreak.

By the time he pulled back, both of them were gasping for air, and Betty’s eyes were again filled with tears, even as her leg was thrown across his hip, holding him firmly against her. She wanted to protest against his breaking off the kiss, but before she could collect her scattered thoughts enough to frame words, he was speaking again.

“I _do_ love you, Betts. And there’s nothing in the world that matters more to me than that… nothing I wouldn’t give up _gladly_. But it turns out, I wouldn’t have been giving up anything real for you anyway. Like I said, Toledo was a pipe dream.”

“What do you mean?” Betty asked, confused as much by his bleak tone as by his words. “It might be delayed, but once FP gets out of jail…”

“Not FP,” Jughead interrupted. “It’s my mom. Turns out, Dad may have jumped the gun just a bit in saying we could start again in Toledo. Apparently, he didn’t run that idea by her.”

Betty waited, instinctively bracing herself against more heartache.

“I didn’t come straight here after the dance,” said Jughead. “I went to the bus station.” Betty’s heart throbbed. She could already feel the pain, without even knowing the cause. “I bought a ticket to Toledo. But when I called Mom to say I was coming – just for a visit – she… said not to. She… umm…” Jughead took several deep breaths, clearly battling for control. Even so, his voice broke as he finally continued. “She didn’t want me, as it turns out.”

Without a word – because, honestly, what could she possibly say to that? – Betty shifted, pulling Jughead into her arms, cradling him close as she strove to comfort a pain that went too deep for words. He resisted her for half a second, before burying his face against her and letting his sobs consume him for the second time that night, clinging to her just as a much younger Jughead used to cling to his mother when hurt or frightened… back when the hurts were simple and could be fixed with a hug… back before she slipped beyond his grasp.

By the time he’d cried out his hurt and anger, his frustration and loneliness and confusion, Betty’s borrowed sweatshirt was drenched, and her own cheeks were wet with helpless tears of sympathy that she was powerless to hold back.

“Would it be awful of me,” Betty asked as he grew still, “to admit I’m glad you’re not leaving town?”

Jughead didn’t move, didn’t speak, yet she knew immediately that something was wrong… beyond the obvious.

“Juggie,” she asked, the comfort in her voice replace by warning, “what are you not telling me?”

“I… may have _exchanged_ my Toledo ticket, instead of refunding it,” Jughead confessed reluctantly.

“’ _May_ ’ have?” Betty repeated, her tone ramping up the danger by a factor of about 50.

“Yes, ‘ _may_ ’ have,” answered Jughead with some asperity, “only... in a ‘definitely did’ kind of way. I’m booked on a 6 a.m. bus to Citrusville, Florida.”

“Citrusville, Florida?” Betty’s tone suddenly dripped with Veronica-esque disbelief. “Why Citrusville, Florida?” Betty asked. As if that mattered. She felt, rather than saw, Jughead’s shrug. “You weren’t going to tell me,” she accused him.

“I was mad at you,” he answered simply.

“And now?” she asked, suddenly sounding forlorn rather than frightening.

“I’ll stay,” he answered quickly. “I’ll refund my ticket and stay… unless… you don’t want me to?” Betty was tempted to hit him at that. After everything she’d said, everything they’d been through, how could he even ask that? On the other hand, he’d had a rough night; he’d been rejected by his own mother, for goodness sakes. Under the circumstances, it seemed only fair to cut him some slack.

Instead of words, she answered him with a kiss. “Don’t want to” wasn’t even close.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had chapters 18 and 19 written for almost a week now, but have been lagging behind on typing, tagging and posting. Sorry for the long gap since the last chapter.
> 
> Obviously, this was all written before the big season finale. I’ve taken some liberties with timeline around episode 12, because it made the story work better inside my own head. I’d love to hear what you think!

### Chapter 18

They’d set the alarms on their phones for 5:00 a.m., wanting to guarantee they'd be at the bus station when it opened at 5:30. Jughead didn’t want to risk the bus leaving before he’d refunded his ticket; he could ill afford to lose that money.

The transaction itself was quickly effected, the woman at the ticket window rolling her eyes at Jughead’s continued indecision. In the absence of anywhere else to go – or any groceries in FP’s trailer – they headed to Pop’s for an early breakfast.

Betty was still dressed in Jughead’s threadbare grey sweats, her homecoming dress wadded into a ball at the bottom of Jughead’s backpack, under his laptop and _over_ his vociferous protests. 

“It’s your _homecoming_ dress,” he’d argued before leaving the trailer, trying to persuade her to hang it in the closet to prevent damage. But Betty had shrugged indifferently.

“We’ll have another homecoming next year… one that’s less fraught, I hope. And maybe I'll have more input into my dress selection than just refusing to wear pink.

"Anyway, the only good memories I have from last night were made after I changed into _these_ ,” she gestured to Jughead’s clothes, which hung from her slim frame. She’d hastily pulled her hair into her usual ponytail, but it looked slightly rumpled and fly-away rather than sleek and buoyant as usual. Scruffy and slightly dishevelled, in clothes several sizes too large for her… she still looked adorable.

It wasn’t full light when they slid into their usual booth and ordered breakfast; the approach of winter was shortening the days. Before they could even take their first sip of coffee, the bus bound for Citrusville passed their window on its way out of town.

“No regrets?” Betty asked him.

“ _Lots_ of regrets,” he countered, “but none about being here with _you_ rather than on that bus… and I’m not just saying that because there is bacon in my immediate future.”

She smiled at him. “Let’s have a bite, let the sun come up, and then ask Archie and Veronica how it went at the sheriff’s station last night.”

“Why not text them now?” Jughead suggested. “If they’re sleeping, a text won’t wake them. And if they’re awake, they can join us for breakfast and fill us in while we eat.”

But Betty wrinkled her nose in apparent distaste. “Honestly, Jug?” she said. “I want to know how it went… I really do. But seeing them right now?” She shook her head. “It’s literally been, like, six hours since I stood right… there,” she pointed, “and told them I was never speaking to them again. 

“I _get_ that we need their information now. I get that their snooping and sleuthing may actually _help_ FP. The circumstances have changed since I yelled at them, Jug. But that doesn’t mean my feelings have.”

The arrival of their orders prevented him from responding right away, and then he got sidetracked by a glimpse of her hands as she reached for the syrup.

“Was that when you made them?” he asked her. “The marks on your hands,” he clarified when she looked at him quizzically. “The ones that were already there before you came to find me. Did you do that when you were here with Archie and Veronica?”

“I’m not really sure,” she answered, not quite meeting his eyes. “I don’t really know when I’m doing it until… you know.”

Jughead nodded, drops of blood on FP’s carpet large in his mind’s eye. He _did_ know. Still…

“Think about it,” he urged her gently. “Maybe we can find better answers… ones that don’t leave scars… if we can connect to it a bit more, figure out when it happened.”

Betty nodded, reaching for a strip of bacon as she did so. “I don’t think so,” she said after chewing meditatively for a few moments. “It’s not that I remember _not_ doing it exactly… but I remember the whole conversation I had here… how I was feeling… what we were saying. I don’t have that sort of…” she gestured helplessly, “ _blank_ … that numb, out-of-body feeling that I had at the trailer.

For possibly the first time in his life, Jughead was letting food grow cold on his plate, such was the intensity of his focus on her words… on _her_.

“It’s a blank when it happens?” he prompted.

Betty stared out the window, and he recognized the expression on her face… the same one she wore when searching for the perfect phrase for an article she was writing, or trying to connect disparate ideas into a unified whole.

“Not a blank, exactly,” she said slowly. “More of a… distance… like it’s happening to someone else, not me.”

Jughead nodded again and absentmindedly pushed his plate aside so he could lean across the table towards her. “So when did you last feel that?” he asked her.

“The school,” Betty answered after a long pause. “Things started to… fade or… recede or… whatever when I saw Veronica and Archie talking to my mom. I kept trying to get a grip, but by the time I was talking to them in the hall… _God!_ Even now, I feel like I was watching it all happen to someone else.”

Jughead wasn’t keen to relive that particular scene in greater detail… wished, in fact, that he too, could have experienced it from a distance. But this wasn’t about him, and he quickly shifted his focus back to Betty.

“Anything else?” he asked her. “You have three sets of cuts,” he reminded her.

“Dinner,” Betty answered. “While Mom was grilling FP. I was definitely… floating above _that_ mess for a few minutes, until my Dad came. He kinda… snapped me out of it, I guess.”

“Any more?” Jughead asked, watching her closely. 

Betty reflected, then shook her head with certainty. “No, the rest of today… well, yesterday,” she amended, nodding towards the early morning light in the window “feels just a little _too_ up close and personal.”

Jughead nodded. Still ignoring his breakfast, he reached across the table and took one of her hands, turning it palm up between them.

“Trailer,” he said, feathering his touch across the deepest gouges, the ones that were scabbing over but still made her flinch at even the lightest touch.

“Hallway,” he traced a second set of crescents, shallower, but pronounced.

“Dinner,” he concluded, touching the faintest of the marks… indentations to shallow to have even formed a scab. He met her gaze, and she nodded reluctantly, uncomfortable with this much focus… particularly amidst the larger dramas of murder, betrayal, and wrongful incarceration.

“So the question presents itself, Cooper,” he said, his eyes serious even as the corner of his mouth quirked teasingly and he strove for a light tone, “why?”

Betty rolled her eyes and pulled back her hand, trying to close the topic. “Stress,” she said dismissively, grabbing her coffee and gulping a tepid mouthful.

“I don’t think so,” Jughead disagreed, shaking his head slightly. “Not entirely.

“You were under stress when you met with Weatherbee this morning… _and_ when you were decorating the gym… _and_ when you fought with your mom about coming to look for me.

“Your _life_ is stressful, Betts. All the time. _All_ the time!

“So what’s different about _these_ times… why are _these_ the moments that leave scars anyone can see?”

Betty thought about it… really thought. Usually, she avoided looking too closely at this part of her life. It wasn’t just that it didn’t fit with her parents’ expectations, with her expectations of herself. It made her feel uncomfortable, unsettled, and she preferred to shelve it in favour of puzzles and problems that she _could_ solve.

But this was _Jughead_ asking, and he was asking, not to criticize or measure her and find her wanting, but because he cared… he was genuinely interested. It was _important_ to him… And suddenly, it seemed interesting and important to her, too.

“ _What_ was different,” Jughead prompted her. “What _felt_ different?”

And just like that, the pieces clicked into place.

“That’s it!” she exclaimed, making Jughead jump.

“What’s it?” he asked, confused.

“How I _felt_! Jughead, all those other times, I said how I felt!

“I _told_ Principal Weatherbee I was slammed with homecoming and school and I needed help. He didn't give me the help... but I told him I needed it anyway.

“I _told_ Archie and Veronica I never wanted to speak to them again.

“I told my _mom_ not to push me… that I’d push back… that I love you and I was going to find you…”

“You told _Alice_ that you love me?” Jughead echoed incredulously, his astonishment distracting him momentarily.

Betty nodded, but didn’t lose focus. “Jughead, that’s it!” she repeated. “When I’m connected enough to tell people how I’m feeling, when I say it out loud… I’m okay. But when I get into overload, and start trying to hold it in…”

“It ends up written in blood,” Jughead concluded. “Well, there you have it, Ms. Cooper,” he added, turning his attention at last to his long-cold plate. “To avoid bloodshed, raise your voice at will.

“So how about we text Archie and Veronica,” he added, biting into a piece of toast that had to have the texture of cardboard by now. “You can tell them you’re pissed, and then book an appointment to give blood.” 


	19. Chapter 19

### Chapter 19

“What do you mean, you didn’t tell him?”

Jughead was staring at Archie and Veronica in stunned disbelief, but it was Betty who asked the question out loud… loud enough to draw attention from the handful of other customers who had trickled into the diner since their arrival.

She had moved around the table to sit beside Jughead when their friends arrived, leaving the newcomers to face them across the clutter of empty dishes. But at the moment, she wasn’t leaning into his reassuring strength. She was on the edge of her seat, and appeared to be restraining herself with difficulty from leaning across the table to shake an answer out of Archie.

“We stood. Right. There.” She pointed again to the spot where their last conversation had occurred, “And we agreed on our plan. It wasn’t a _complicated_ plan. In fact it was pretty straightforward.

“Step one: I go find Jughead.” She raised both arms with a flourish, as if presenting Jughead in a frame. “Here he is. Mission accomplished. 

“Step two,” she leaned menacingly even further across the table. “ _You_ go tell Sheriff Keller what you saw at the trailer. And that was it. Plan complete. Two steps… one of which, _I_ took care of. So _how_ did that _not_ happen?”

“Well,” Archie began, looking to Veronica as if for support, “our parents thought…”

“Your parents?” Betty interrupted him, enunciating crisply. “Your _parents_ thought… So, you… what? _Coincidentally_ bumped into your parents on the steps of the Sheriff’s station at midnight?”

“No! We called them to meet at my house…” Archie tried again.

“Because when a man’s framed for murder, Fred Andrews Construction is the _logical_ first call,” Betty finished sarcastically, cutting him off yet again. She was fuming, clipping off her words with military precision as she glared daggers across the table.

“Hey, my dad _always_ knows what to do,” Archie defended heatedly.

“Really,” Betty challenged him dryly, her tone making the word a statement rather than a question. Her voice, which had been rising steadily, was quieter now, yet somehow more dangerous. “That’s great, Arch. Because for a second there, it _sounded_ like he’d talked you _out_ of going to the Sheriff with critical information about a murder investigation. Which is the Exact. Opposite. Of the right thing to do.” 

“Hey,” Jughead said softly, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder, drawing her attention gently back to him. He was glad she wasn’t bottling up her anger – and, _God_ , seeing her this angry on his dad’s behalf… on _his_ behalf… felt amazing. But they weren’t finding anything out this way. “Let’s hear them out, okay? There’s still time to sharpen our pitchforks _after_ they tell us what happened,” he added humourously.

“I may hold you to that,” Betty muttered grudgingly, but she also gave a curt nod and leaned back in the booth, suddenly all about putting distance between herself and her friends on the other side of the table.

And now that Betty had stopped grilling him, Archie appeared to have lost his momentum, unsure of how to begin. He glanced uncertainly at Veronica and she took pity on him.

“Yes, we called our parents,” she said, trying and failing to catch Betty’s eye. “And apart from the fact that I am apparently now at a place in my life where I have to use the term “sheriff” in referring to law enforcement, it wasn’t a terrible idea. Going to the police has more weight with adults behind us,” she said.

“Except for the part where you failed to actually _go_ to the Sheriff,” Betty reminded her, leaning heavily on the word “sheriff.” Jughead looked at her chidingly, and she raised both hands in a gesture of surrender and resumed a stony silence.

“They had some good points,” Veronica said reasonably. “Archie’s mom told us our search was _illegal_. She said any evidence we found would be inadmissible in court anyway.”

Betty huffed indignantly, but it was Jughead who responded this time, his tone laced with disbelief.

“Inadmissable in _court_?” he echoed. “Who’s going to court? Right now, all we have to do is convince Sheriff Keller he hasn’t caught Jason Blossom’s killer yet. _He_ can find evidence to go to court with… that’s actually his _job_. But right now, there’s exactly _zero_ chance that he’s going to find _anything_ because he’s not even looking.”

The four of them stared at each other for a long moment. Then, as if someone had fired a starting pistol, they ran for the door.

***

They burst through the front door of Riverdale’s Sheriff’s station and scrambled up the stairs as if enough speed now would someone make up for the hours they’d lost overnight.

“Excuse me sir,” Archie addressed the desk sergeant even before he’d skidded to a complete stop on the tiled floor. “We need to see Sheriff Keller.”

“There’s been a _huge_ mistake,” Betty added. Before the officer on duty could even reply, they heard footsteps behind them and spun to see the Sheriff himself.

“Sheriff,” Veronica took command of the situation. “We need to talk to you about FP Jones.”

“What about him?” Keller asked, narrowing his eyes.

“He’s innocent!” Archie interjected.

“He’s being framed,” Veronica expanded.

Sheriff Keller’s expression of suspicion morphed into mild confusion. “Well then, why did he just confess?”

Betty could hardly bear to see the stricken expression on Jughead’s face. Before she could begin to imagine what to say, though, before she could even begin to _process_ the mention of a confession, FP himself appeared, being led across the lobby by two sheriff’s deputies. He exchanged a long glance with Jughead -- a glance that ripped Betty’s heart in two with its utter apathy, as if he were staring at a stranger – before disappearing down a hall.

Sheriff Keller followed without another word, leaving the four teenagers standing speechless in the hall.

***

“It’s surreal, isn’t it?” Kevin asked, his voice startling Betty, snapping her back to awareness of the crowded school cafeteria around her. If Jughead were here, she’d be with him at their picnic table outside, braving the cold in order to reap the rewards of privacy and room to breathe. But Jughead _wasn’t_ here, and without him, the picnic table wasn’t a respite… it was just cold and… empty. 

Not that she felt any less isolated in this stifling chaos, almost overwhelmed by the noise, the heat, the smells of hundreds of teenagers trying to eat their lunches and resolve their dramas in the brief interval between the adult-controlled hours of their school day. And so she’d retreated into her own mind, losing the thread of the conversation at her table along with the white noise of the rest of the school.

But Kevin was still talking, and she forced her attention back to his words, only to immediately wish she hadn’t.

“How’s Jughead?” he asked, with apparent sincerity. The question seemed to be directed vaguely towards her, but a simmering anger had been roiling within her for hours and she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him.

“Not good,” she answered, keeping her eyes glued to the copy of the _Riverdale Register_ she’d been staring at unseeingly since sitting down.

“He’s not coming in today,” Archie added, characteristically oblivious to the tense undercurrent of the conversation. “He’s at the station.”

“Being grilled by your dad,” Veronica expanded. Her tone had a slight edge to it, and Betty applauded inside her own mind even as she outwardly continued to pore over the paper.

“He’s just doing his job,” Kevin defended his father, and Betty’s rage hit the boiling point.

“Okay, well, he’s wasting his time, Kev, because FP didn’t kill Jason!” It was only after she’d finished speaking – still not looking Kevin in the eye – that she realized she’d been hitting the table for emphasis.

“Betty, he _confessed_ ,” Kevin reminded her.

“ _Or_ he was coerced,” Betty countered. “Or he’s protecting someone? Maybe… another Serpent? My mom saw him and Joaquin together…”

“Don’t,” Kevin began. “Do. Not. Drag my boyfriend into this.”

“Oh no,” Archie said, cutting off Betty’s angry retort.

“What?” she asked in surprise, and turning around to see what had captured Archie’s attention, she spotted him. Jughead.

“What happened to him not coming in today?” Veronica asked , but Betty barely heard her. All of her attention was focused on the pale young man making his way slowly through the crowded cafeteria, not glancing to the left or right, but keeping his gaze fixed unerringly on his target.

To anyone else, he would have appeared oblivious to the stares and whispers all around him. But Betty _knew_ him, knew better than anyone how much their curiosity and scorn would slice at his sensitive heart, and her own heart throbbed with painful pride at his bravery as he walked the gauntlet of their disapproval to do what he believed was right.

He didn’t shift focus, didn’t turn even slightly, until he stopped, hands in pockets, shoulders slumped, directly in front of Cheryl Blossom, the girl whose brother _his_ father had just confessed to killing.

He sniffed, a sound that Betty knew signalled his most vulnerable moments, before mumbling through lips that seemed stiff and uncooperative, “I’m sorry, Cheryl.”

Cheryl stared at him for a tense moment, as the entire room seemed to hold its breath. Then, moving almost in slow motion, she stood and slapped him squarely across the face. Before he’d even recovered from the blow, she grabbed the front panels of his jacket and shook him, pulling him off balance, before beginning to pummel his torso with her fists in helpless, uncontrolled rage as tears rained down her face.

Jughead didn’t try to stop her… didn’t try to defend himself. He didn’t even take his hands out of his pockets. He just stood there and took it, as if it were a deserved punishment… almost as if it were why he’d approached her in the first place, Betty thought, and her fingertips traced the gouges she’d carved into her own palms as she thought it.

She desperately wanted to go to him, but before she could move, Principal Weatherbee arrived. “Enough!” he shouted in a voice of authority. “Mr. Jones, you need to come with me _right now_ ,” he said icily.

“He was _apologizing_ ,” Archie shouted indignantly, and Betty almost wanted to laugh at his naivety. As if Weatherbee cared about that. As if fairness or personal responsibility mattered in any conflict between the Blossom heiress and the boy from the south side with no one in his corner.

“He didn’t do anything wrong!” Archie continued.

If Jughead heard him, he gave no sign of it as he turned and walked away.


	20. Chapter 20

### Chapter 20

“Jughead’s getting kicked out because Cheryl pummeled him,” Archie’s voice was disbelieving. “How’s that fair?”

“It’s _not_ ,” Jughead heard Fred acknowledge, as he sat down on the stairs, unseen by either Fred or Archie in the kitchen.

“Well, can we call… the school board?” Archie was suggesting.

“Son,” Fred sounded tired, resigned, and Jughead just _knew_ that whatever he said next wasn’t going to be good. “FP may spend _decades_ in prison, potentially the rest of his life. We… we’ve gotta think of the long-term solutions.”

“We _are_ the long-term solution,” Archie answered, and his utter confidence that things could be that simple warmed Jughead’s heart at the same time that it irritated him. _He_ hadn’t been that innocent in _kindergarten_ ; he’d never had the luxury of indulging in that kind of trust.

“That’s not how it _works_ , okay?” Fred answered, his tone mirroring Jughead’s own feeling of mingled affection and exasperation. “I’m not his legal guardian.”

“Good thing Mom’s a lawyer,” Archie responded. Simple. Certain.

“Archie!” Fred raised his voice, exasperation apparently winning out over affection at the moment. Jughead could relate. “My priority is keeping _you_ safe.” And with a pang, Jughead heard the rest of that sentence – the part Fred _hadn’t_ said aloud – even if Archie missed it. ‘My priority is… _you… not Jughead_.’

“Keeping me safe from who?” Archie was yelling now, even if he was oblivious to the undercurrent. “Jughead? Are you _kidding_ me, Dad?” He laughed, but the laugh was threaded through with a bitterness that was totally out of character for him. A small, distant part of Jughead – a part that _wasn’t_ totally consumed with his own problems – found time to pity his friend who was learning, probably for the first time in his life, what it was like to be disappointed in his father. 

“No!” Fred shouted back. “From whatever troubles seem to follow the Joneses around, wherever they go, whatever they do!”

The angry voices from the kitchen continued, their volume unabated, but Jughead lost the thread of the conversation, lost the part of himself that had stayed detached from his own suffering and empathized with Archie just a moment ago. He was consumed, drowning, in the hurt of hearing what Fred – a man who, unlike his own father, had never let him down –thought of him… of his family. Doomed. Dangerous. Damaged. Phrase it any way you want, the message was pretty damned clear. There was a limit to even Fred’s support and care for Jughead, because after a certain point?. He was a Jones, and troubles would follow him… always… no matter what he did, or what anyone else did for him.

Alone on the stairs, Jughead tried to resist the pull of that fatalism, tried to believe he could choose his path, change his destiny, step out of the life of poverty and disappointment and heartache that had been his family’s legacy and birthright as far back as anyone could remember. He tried… but with Fred’s words still ringing in his ears, Jughead found he couldn’t do it. Instead, his mind kept replaying his father’s words to him in the truck, just before the homecoming dance. 

_“Hell, you know what happens to people like us here in Riverdale, Jug. We get chewed up.”_

The sound of movement from the kitchen penetrated his abstraction, brought him to his feet almost before he could form the thought. He didn’t want to be found here, listening… couldn’t bear for them to know he’d heard. His desperation propelled him almost to the front door before Archie caught him.

“Hey! Jug!” Archie called.

Jughead turned reluctantly, shoulders hunched, head down. “I’ll sleep in the garage tonight, okay?” he said. It was the most he could manage at the moment, and he stepped out into the night without even seeing Archie shake his head in confusion.

***

“Are you coming over?” It was after midnight when he got Betty’s text. The glow of his phone’s screen at the incoming message was the only light in the garage. He wasn’t sleeping… wasn’t even thinking, really. He was just… surviving, minute by minute, lying numb yet alert on the couch in the garage Fred had converted for Archie’s musical pursuits. 

Until that moment, he’d not even considered that Betty might be expecting him… _would_ be expecting him, after weeks of spending their nights together. And he found himself paralyzed with indecision, unsure of how to respond.

On the one hand, the mere sight of her name on his phone screen made the garage seem just a shade less lonely. Aching and alone, a part of him craved the balm of her company, her touch, her voice.

Yet another powerful part of him was unwilling – unable, even – to move. Lying on this couch in the dark, isolated and withdrawn, felt fitting, somehow. Adding to his inertia, he remembered again the frustration he’d felt earlier in the day, after his confrontation with Principal Weatherbee. Much as Betty’s staunch defense of his father, her insistence on his innocence, meant to Jughead… a dark corner of his mind resented it, too. _Someone_ had killed Jason Blossom. In Riverdale, that fact alone might have been enough to convict FP or any other member of the South Side Serpents, and Betty was just plain naïve if she didn’t see that. But it was FP’s confession that clinched it. Under the circumstances, Betty’s insistence on finding another solution to the mystery wasn’t loyal… it was delusional.

And delusions and illusions – much like Archie’s innocence – were luxuries Jughead’s life had never afforded him. Now, with FP in jail, his mother out of reach by her own choice, and even old, reliable Fred Andrews ready to roll up the welcome mat and put it into long-term storage, Jughead’s future was more precarious than ever. And the part of him that loved Betty and her loyalty to his dad was at war with the part that resented her innocence… the part that thought maybe she was a luxury not to be afforded him either.

“Juggie?” She’d texted again, tired of waiting for a response.

“Not tonight,” he texted back. All other considerations aside, there was no point in subjecting her to his current mood. And he really didn’t want to burn any bridges by coming at her with the blind rage, the powerless desperation he was feeling right now. He remembered only too well how deeply he’d hurt her on the night of his ill-fated birthday party, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

“I love you,” he texted a second message. “Just gonna crash here.”

He waited a long moment before her “okay” flashed onto his screen. He set aside his phone and lay back, one arm over his eyes, knowing sleep was very far away.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Molly. I hope this helps!

### Chapter 21

Forty-five minutes later, Jughead sat up in alarm. He _knew_ he’d locked the door to the garage when he’d come in here; a childhood like his tended to make one particular about such niceties. Yet after a series of scratching noises a moment ago, the door was unmistakably swinging open. His heart thundered, apathy, lethargy and bitterness alike forgotten as he tried to prepare himself for… whatever might come next.

Which, as it turned out, was nothing more menacing than a big-eyed blonde with a brown paper bag in one hand and a familiar paper cup in the other.

“Betty!” Jughead gasped. “What are you _doing_ here? You scared me half to death! I thought I’d locked that door.”

“You did,” Betty confirmed, closing the door behind her, but hovering near it as if unsure how long she’d be staying. “I _unlocked_ it,” she added simply. “And let that be a lesson to all who might underestimate the educational value of Nancy Drew.”

Jughead couldn’t help himself. He laughed, and with that small sound, the knot in his gut loosened just a little as the darkness seemed a little less intense.

How did she _do_ that, he marveled. How could this incredible woman make sunshine in the midst of desperation and a dark garage, just by showing up?

“Duly noted,” he said aloud, striving to keep his tone light, to avoid throwing himself at her feet and weeping in sheer relief that she had come. When he was sunk too deep to go to her… she’d come to him instead. “I presume the diploma for that particular branch on the tree of knowledge can be found hidden in an old clock, somewhere on Larkspur Lane,” he added, and at the sound of her giggle, the knot inside his stomach loosened a little more as warmth began to flood back into his body.

“But how’d you know I was _here_?” he asked, as the thought struck him abruptly. “Please tell me you _didn’t_ climb in Archie’s window first, looking for me.” He was only half joking, but Betty laughed anyway.

“I didn’t have to sink so low,” she reassured him, “ _or_ climb so high, as the case may be.

“I was worried about you,” she explained. “Your text tonight sounded… off. So I texted Arch and asked if you were okay. He said he didn’t know… because you were here.”

“Did he tell you _why_ I’m here,” Jughead asked apprehensively, not sure he wanted to know how his friend would have described the situation.

But Betty rolled her eyes and snorted, a sound that would have sent Alice Cooper into the rafters, had she been around to hear it. “ _Archie_?” she asked, her tone heavy with disbelief. “Juggie, he writes _term papers_ like they’re Tweets! Have you _ever_ known him to explain _anything_ in writing, except under academic duress?”

Jughead laughed again, forced to concede her point. It wasn’t that Archie was stupid – far from it, in fact, despite his characteristic willingness to dwell in the shallows. But the written word, unless set to music, was like a foreign language for Archie. Brilliant in some ways, he was decidedly… Jughead paused in his thought process, not wanting to think unkindly of his oldest friend… _other_ than brilliant at narrative or expository writing.

“So, you came to check on me,” he stated the obvious, unable to keep a certain satisfaction out of his tone.

“No,” Betty answered, handing him the paper bag and takeout cup he’d noticed earlier but forgotten she was holding. “I went to Pop’s and got you a double cheeseburger with onion rings and a chocolate shake. _Then_ I came to check up on you.”

“No vanilla shake for you?” he teased to cover the lump in his throat.

Betty shrugged. “There was. I drank it while I was waiting for Pop Tate to cook the burgers,” she explained. “Speaking of which, there’s a burger in there,” she gestured to the bag he now held, “for me too. But I can definitely take it to go, Juggie, if you need your privacy.”

Jughead wasn’t sure what to say to that, and Betty took his silence for agreement. She reached into the bag and pulled out a burger.

“I understand,” she said. “I just wanted to see you before bed, and to tell you I love you.” She headed for the door.

“Betty, no…” Jughead began.

“It’s okay, Juggie,” she said with a sad smile. “You’re allowed to _want_ alone time. I really do understand.”

“Clearly you don’t,” Jughead managed to reply, or you’d be sitting down next to me instead of inching away.”

Betty smiled at him -- her characteristic, sunny smile this time -- and joined him on the couch, lifting his feet to make a space for herself and sliding in under them, taking his feet into her lap.

“Do you want to talk?” she asked, unwrapping the foil-backed paper from around her burger.

“Not yet,” Jughead answered honestly. “Maybe after food. Unless you’re in a hurry to get home?” he added.

But Betty shuddered delicately. “Hardly,” she assured him. “I’m about 98% sure my parents are having make-up sex right now.” Jughead choked on his burger. “If I’m not in your way, I’d _really_ rather stay right _here_ for the present.”

“ _Make-up sex_?” he repeated in incredulous horror when he could again draw breath. “So… the prodigal father has returned?”

“I thought you wanted to talk _after_ food,” Betty challenged him.

“I can _listen_ while I eat,” Jughead protested. “And after supplying me with a truly _chilling_ mental picture of Alice and Hal, mid-frolic, I think you at least owe me an explanation as penance.”

And so he listened as Betty told a tale of noises in the night, Alice with a gun to confront the presumed intruder, stolen files and family secrets. By the time she’d finished, the food had disappeared and his chocolate shake was melted and runny.

“So... I’m not just dating a cheerleader; I’m dating a cheerleading _Blossom_?” he said incredulously when she’d finished. Betty nodded. “My reputation may never recover,” he mourned, and Betty smacked him.

“Hey, at least I’m an outcast and renegade cheerleading Blossom,” Betty comforted him. It was too dark to see the twinkle in her eye, but he could hear it anyway.

“And Polly?” Jughead asked cautiously.

Betty sighed. “Well, obviously, we have to get her out of _Casa del los_ Blossoms ASAP,” she said. “But Mom and Dad made a lot of noise about waiting until morning, not disturbing her rest, etcetera, etcetera. None of which concealed the fact that they were looking pretty… get-a-roomy.”

Jughead shuddered inadvertently at the image.

“We’ll go get Polly tomorrow,” Betty concluded. “But what about you, Juggie?” she asked in sudden concern. “I’m going on and on about me and my crazy family and you’re… sleeping in a garage. Can we talk about _that_? Do you… _want_ to talk about it?” she added, suddenly unsure.

And Jughead was surprised to discover that he actually _did_ want to talk about it.

“Yeah,” he said, rising and carrying their food wrappers to the waste bin in the corner. “But I think better when you’re closer,” he added, sinking down beside her again and pulling her into his arms. Betty came to him unhesitatingly, leaning into the protective circle of his arms and resting her head on his shoulder.

Jughead took a deep breath, began to talk.


	22. Chapter 22

### Chapter 22

The breakfast meeting at Pop’s with Archie’s lawyer mother had _not_ been reassuring.”

“Jughead, my advice to you is: go and see your father,” Mary Andrews had told him before saying goodbye. “Tell him everything you want to say. Once he’s arraigned, things tend to move pretty quickly… this might be your last chance.”

Jughead fully intended to follow her advice. There was _plenty_ he wanted to say to his dad… more, in fact, than he was likely to have time for, and not all of it was particularly filial. He’d already learned, though, that he could only visit the jail by appointment, and his appointment time wasn’t for another two hours.

With time on his hands, he ambled home with Archie, intending to sleep another hour before his “last chance” visit. It had already been almost 1:00 a.m. by the time Betty arrived at the garage last night… or this morning, and they’d spent a long time talking before they’d slept. They’d spent a fair bit of time _not_ talking before they’d slept, too, and as he remembered the sweet fire of Betty’s kisses, he hoped Archie wouldn’t notice the flush rising in his cheeks.

But as they neared the house, his attention was jolted back to the present by sounds of violent destruction emanating from the Coopers’ back yard. Heavy thuds and the sound of splintering wood were punctuated by grunts and harsh breathing.

His heart in his throat, images of a waterlogged body in Sweetwater River flooding his mind, Jughead saw his own fear mirrored on Archie’s face. Without a word spoken between them, they left the road and sprinted around the side of the house at top speed… only to skid to a stop, their mouths open in identical expressions of amazement, at the sight that greeted them.

A sledgehammer in hand, her pink t-shirt drenched in sweat despite the chill of approaching winter in the air, Betty was systematically demolishing the dilapidated garden shed that had stood at the back of the yard for as long as Jughead had been visiting the Coopers, next to what had, in years gone past, been Alice Cooper’s vegetable patch.

Totally oblivious to their presence, Betty swung the sledge again and again, boards splintering and breaking loose under the relentless force of her blows. Muscles Jughead had never noticed before, never even _imagined_ Betty possessing, popped into sharp relief as she hefted the heavy hammer. Her grunts of exertion were inarticulate, but between them, she seemed to be muttering angrily even as she maintained the punishing pace of her assault on the flimsy wooden structure.

As they watched, the wall she had been attacking so vigorously collapsed, causing one side of the roof to sag abruptly as the other walls tilted inwards.

Barely pausing, Betty shifted her stance slightly and turned her attention to the next wall. Without the reinforcement the fourth wall had provided, each of her blows caused the entire structure to wobble ominously, but she didn’t relent even slightly. Her grunts were more like screams now as she struck again and again and, at a final, mighty blow from her hammer, the remaining walls pitched inwards and collapsed, the roof crashing down on top of them with more noise than Jughead would have expected… if it had ever occurred to him to expect _any_ of this.

In the sudden stillness, Betty’s breathing sounded harsh and laboured, punctuated with what sounded like sobs. She still held the sledgehammer, turning it over and over in her hands as if unsure what to do, now that she’d run out of walls to hit with it.

Jughead wasn’t sure what had prompted this sudden passion for demolition, but it seemed obvious that something was very wrong. Carefully, unsure whether she’d even recognize him at the moment, he edged towards her.

“Betty?” he called softly as he drew closer, only then noticing that Archie was still right beside him. “Betty, are you okay?”

Still breathing hard, Betty lifted her head, her eyes blank. A few more breaths, a blink and suddenly her eyes cleared and he saw recognition in them.

“Juggie,” she said in mild surprise, “and Archie? What are you _doing_ here?”

“Just... wanted to say good morning,” Jughead answered, feeling somehow sure that mentioning the noises they’d heard and the sheer panic that had propelled them into her yard would be the wrong thing to do at the moment. It could create awkwardness and… he wasn’t entirely confident that she wouldn’t start laying about with that sledgehammer again if the wrong button were pushed.”

Apparently thinking along the same lines, Archie stepped forwards. “Let me take that,” he said with unwonted gentleness, placing his hands just outside Betty’s on the wooden handle. After a short pause, Betty nodded jerkily and let go, stepping back as she did so.

Which was a good thing, because as soon as she took her hands off it, the sledgehammer plummeted straight to the ground, landing exactly where her foot had been seconds before and causing Archie to stumble, almost losing his balance. The weight was clearly more – significantly more – than he’d been prepared for. He recovered his equilibrium quickly, but his expression was slightly shaken. “Wow,” he mouthed silently as he met Jughead’s gaze.

“Okay,” Betty said, looking slightly confused. She seemed totally unaware of the noise she’d been making, or of how long it had taken for her to make the mental journey back from… wherever she’d been, to even recognize them. “Good morning, then.”

“How _are_ you?” Archie asked cautiously. Betty shifted her gaze to him, and her expression hardened in some indefinable way.

“I’m _fine_ , Arch,” she said, her tone no longer confused, but matching the expression on her face. “But how are _you_?”

“Uhhhh… fine?” Archie responded uncertainly. Now _he_ was the one who appeared confused.

“Are you _sure_ , Arch?” Betty asked, and now her tone was clearly edged with something Jughead knew her well enough to recognize as fury. “You haven’t sustained any damage from the _dangerous_ company you’re keeping?”

Archie’s eyes strayed first to the discarded sledgehammer on the lawn, then to the wreckage of what he been her parents’ shed, clearly picturing damage of a physical sort. But Jughead understood – not just her implication, but what it said about the source of her destructive rage – and found himself gripped with powerful, simultaneous urges to laugh, to cry, to shake her violently, and to kiss the living shit out of her. For a guy who’d prided himself on his ironic detachment, even in childhood, he _did_ seem surprisingly volatile where Betty was concerned.

“I’m just with Juggie, Betty,” Archie said, his sweetly straightforward nature completely missing the direction of her comments.

“I _know_ … and with no one to _protect_ you either,” Betty agreed, and Jughead watched the penny drop for Archie. “Because, naturally, you need to be _protected_. _Right?_ ”she all but snarled.

“No, I…” Archie began, but Betty cut him off.

“Because of all the _trouble_ ,” she was enunciating with exaggerated precision “that follows him and FP around. _Right?_ ” This time, the “t” at the end of her “right” could have punched a hole straight through the ice on Sweetwater River.

“Betty,” Archie tried to explain, and Jughead groaned inwardly. Now was _not_ the moment to try to soften Betty’s stance. She’d be open to discussion… _after_ her rage had abated. But right now? She was definitely _not_ in a listening frame of mind. “My dad loves Jughead,” Archie was explaining, and Jughead suppressed his own snort of disbelief with difficulty, still raw from the conversation he’d overheard last night. “He _does_. He’s just worried…” he trailed off lamely, clearly recognizing that nothing he said was mitigating Betty’s wrath.

She was nodding in a pantomime of agreement. “ _Naturally_ , he’s worried, Archie,” she pretended to agree, “because of all that _trouble_ that follows the Joneses, ‘wherever they go, whatever they do,’ isn’t that it?” She paused expectantly, but this time Archie said nothing.

“Let me be clear about something, _Archiekins_ ,” Betty said, Veronica’s nickname for him sounding insulting, demeaning on her lips. “You want to know _what’s_ following Jughead and FP no matter where they go or what they do?

“ _Me_.

“ _I_ am sticking to them like glue, no matter what happens. _I_ am what’s following them now.

“Do _I_ look like _trouble_ to you?” she challenged.

“Yes,” Jughead answered before Archie could. It was no more than the truth. Her eyes glittering angrily above cheeks still flushed with exertion, her shoulders thrown back in defiance, highlighting the way her breasts rose and fell with her rapid breathing, Betty looked like a textbook definition of trouble… the kind of trouble he couldn’t imagine resisting.

“You look like an avenging angel, or some Norse goddess of destruction… I’m pretty sure it would be Norse,” he added thoughtfully. “You don’t really have Greek colouring. Although I’ll grant you, you _do_ look _fractionally_ less menacing now that you’ve dropped the sledgehammer.”

“You look like you’re going to be _in_ trouble when your mom sees what you did to her shed,” Archie added prosaically.

Betty snorted, her face scrunching into a disbelieving smirk. And just like that, the avenging angel was gone and Betty Cooper was back.

“Will not,” she challenged in her normal tone.”

“Will too,” Archie insisted, clearly relieved at the shift in energy in the yard.

“Nuh-unh,” Betty answered, repeating a pattern they’d played out again and again throughout their shared childhood, growing up side by side.

“Uh-hunh,” Archie replied predictably.

“Won’t happen,” Betty said confidently, breaking the script mere moments before its inanity would have driven Jughead completely around the bend, despite its comforting familiarity. “Mom was after Dad all last summer to tear that shed down, and he kept not getting around to it. I swear, it was _all_ either of them could talk about _every_ time I called home. I was hundreds of miles away, going _crazy_ wanting to know what was happening with Polly, and they wanted to fight about a stupid shed,” her expression darkened for a moment, and Jughead saw her flexing her hands, as if wishing she were holding the sledgehammer again… or as if resisting the urge to drive her nails into her own palms. But her expression cleared quickly.

“Mom will be thrilled it’s done,” she continued brightly, as if the momentary shadow had never occurred. “ _Dad_ will be thrilled he won’t have to do it. And _Polly_ will be thrilled not to have to hear about it. Everybody wins.”

“Polly?” Jughead repeated, quick to pick up on the comment.

Betty nodded affirmatively. “We went to wrest her from the bosom of the Blossom horde first thing this morning.”

“And?” Jughead prompted.

“And… after plenty of fireworks… and water works… and just... _work_ … she’s asleep in her room as we speak,” Betty answered.

“I doubt that,” Archie commented, reminding them both of his presence, and they looked at him questioningly. “As much noise as you made with your little drum solo,” he nodded at the remnants of the shed, “I doubt there’s anyone in Riverdale still asleep.” Betty rolled her eyes at him.

“So, Polly and your dad are both back home now?” Jughead asked.

Betty nodded again. “And my mom is carefully reconstructing the Cooper veneer of perfection… one Step _ford_ at a time.”Jughead slung an arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head, knowing she didn’t want to talk more about her family in front of Archie. She nestled against him, still radiating post-exercise heat despite the morning chill and her short-sleeved shirt.

“But what are you both doing out so early?” she asked suddenly. “Shouldn’t all self-respecting teenagers be, you know… asleep?”

Jughead explained briefly about the meeting with Mary. “It doesn’t look good,” he concluded, echoing her sentiment if not her words. “She suggested I see Dad while, uh…” he cleared his throat. “While I still can. I have an appointment to visit in a couple of hours.”

“Do you want me to come?” Betty offered. Out of the corner of his eye, Jughead saw Archie startle slightly, but the movement barely caused a ripple in his own consciousness.

“Not this time,” he answered truthfully. “I think this one, I need to do myself.” Betty nodded her understanding.

“He’d love it if you came another time, though,” Jughead added. “Assuming, of course, there _is_ another time. But honestly, he _loves_ you. He'd be thrilled if you visited.” That was no more than the truth, but Betty smiled as if he’d paid her a lavish compliment, even as she downplayed it.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” she said lightly, before planting a gentle kiss on his lips.

“I’ll call you after?” Jughead suggested.

Betty nodded. “Meanwhile,” she said, “I still need to break this up into smaller pieces, or Stan will refuse to haul it away.”

Stan Robins, the local trash collector, was notoriously accommodating… _and_ notoriously fond of Betty. He would likely have tried to load the shed onto his truck _intact_ , if she’d only asked him to. Which meant that, despite this momentary lull, her anger at Fred’s comments – and probably at least five other issues, Jughead acknowledged – was the real reason for her destructive zeal. So long as she worked out her issues on wood rather than her own flesh, though, Jughead had no complaints.

“Hand me that sledge, Arch?” Betty requested, already turning back to the wreckage.

Archie used both hands to half lift, half drag the sledgehammer towards her. She clucked her tongue slightly as she took it from him, hefting it with apparent ease as she contemplated where to strike her first blow.

Archie was still shaking his head as the boys crossed the lawn towards his house, the symphony of destruction resuming behind them. Jughead quirked an inquiring eyebrow at him.

“I don’t believe it,” Archie said flatly.

“What?” Jughead teased. “That little Betty can swing a sledgehammer that toppled you over?”

But Archie didn’t respond to his teasing. He just shook his head, his eyes uncharacteristically serious. “No, Jug. It’s just… until today, I never would’ve imagined Betty could be… scary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this is a little longer than most of my chapters, but I couldn't quite decide where to cut it. Thanks for hanging in there! 
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you think!
> 
> Best,  
> Blue


	23. Chapter 23

### Chapter 23

“I’m so glad you’re home, Poll,” Betty sighed. She had finished the demolition of the backyard shed – as predicted, her parents were thrilled the job was done, and not even slightly curious about her unprecedented desire to grab a sledgehammer at 7:00 on a Saturday morning – and had showered and dressed.

She was still angry… still convinced of FP’s innocence, despite his confession… still disappointed in Fred Andrews, who she’d always considered a cut above the other parents of her acquaintance, her own included. His readiness to abandon Jughead to whatever fate awaited him at the hands of “the system” had shaken her badly.

But the choking rage that had gripped her when she and her family returned triumphant from their early morning visit to the Blossoms had waned, sweated out by her hours of exertion. So when Polly had wandered into her room a few minutes ago and lain down on Betty’s bed, Betty had joined her, ready for the kind of sisterly camaraderie she’d been missing for months… maybe even years, as Polly’s social life and efforts to distance herself from the family kept her more and more away from home.

“And I’m glad you’re safe. And that the babies are okay and healthy,” Betty sighed again. “But… _God!_ Everything else…”

“It’s the _worst_ ,” Polly agreed, and Betty felt a rush of gladness that her big sister was here… that, at last, she had an ally at home.

Before she could answer, though, her phone rang, Jughead’s name appearing on her screen where it lay, in front of her on the bed.

“Hello,” she answered, eager to hear how his visit at the Sheriff’s department’s holding cells had gone.

“Betty,” Jughead’s voice was crystal-clear over the line. “I saw my dad. You were right. He’s hiding something.”

“But what?” Betty asked, all of her attention on him immediately.

“I don’t know yet,” Jughead admitted. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Need a little help?” she offered.

“From my favourite, Nancy Drew-approved girl sleuth and future Pulitzer winner?” Jughead replied, his voice warm, his smile audible even over the phone. “Always.”

“When and where?” Betty asked.

“Home is where the murder board is,” Jughead answered wryly. “Do you still have a key to the school?”

“But of course,” Betty answered. “I’ll meet you at the main doors in 20 minutes.

“I’ll be the one in the pink carnation,” Jughead replied before breaking the connection, and Betty was laughing softly as she put down her phone. One of the many things she loved about Jughead was his ability to lighten her mood, no matter how bleak things got.

“What was _that_ about?” Polly’s tone was suspicious as she sat up and fixed Betty with a stare that would have done their mother proud.

“I’m sorry, Poll,” Betty said, already throwing a couple of spiral-bound notebooks and a fistful of pens into her backpack. “I’ve gotta run. Jughead needs my help. He…”

“ _Jughead_ needs you?” Polly echoed incredulously. “I just got _home_! And now you’re ditching me for _Jughead_?” Like their mother, she pronounced each syllable of the nickname with ostentatious precision.

“Not _just_ Jughead, Polly,” Betty corrected without slowing the pace of her preparations. “FP, too. And maybe even… Riverdale.”

“Oh, _Riverdale_ needs you,” Polly repeated sarcastically. “Well, don’t let me stand in the way of the 15-year-old who saved the metropolis of Riverdale!”

“Polly!” Betty stood stock-still as she faced her sister directly. “You’re being _mean_! Why?”

Polly shook her head impatiently. “I’m not being ‘mean,’” she said dismissively. “It’s just… I just got home. And now you want to go running off because _Jughead_ called? Honestly, Betty, I think you need to re-evaluate your priorities.”

Something about that phrase raised Betty’s suspicions at once. “Have you been talking to Mom and Dad about Jughead and me?” she asked.

“They’re _concerned_ about you, Betty,” Polly said in her elder-sister voice, by which Betty knew that the answer to her own question was a resounding ‘yes.’ “And frankly, from what I’m seeing now, I think they’re right.”

“Poll, he’s _important_ to me,” Betty tried to explain, but Polly huffed impatiently.

“More important than your family?” she challenged.

“Hey!” Betty took a step closer to her sister, her voice sharp as Polly’s attitude began to anger her. “Didn’t _I_ always stand up for you when Mom and Dad were trying to drive a wedge between you and Jason?”

“ _That_ was different!” Polly exclaimed angrily. “Jason was _wonderful_! Mom and Dad just didn’t understand!”

“Jughead is wonderful too, Polly,” Betty pleaded, trying to get through to her sister, “and Mom and Dad _definitely_ don’t understand.”

“It’s not the same,” Polly insisted. “Jason was smart and handsome and trustworthy and…” 

“Rich?” Betty supplied, her tone hard now. “Because everything else you’ve just said applies to Jughead, too. With the difference that Jughead is also _kind_. He doesn’t pick on the less popular kids… doesn’t compete with his football buddies by keeping a disgusting record of his conquests… doesn’t make me cry the way Jason kept doing with you.”

“We knew who Jason _was_ ,” Polly said with some asperity, ignoring Betty’s last, unanswerable comment.

“Apparently, we _didn’t_ , since it turned out he was our _cousin_ ,” Betty muttered, and Polly’s mouth twisted in rage. Seeing her sister’s reaction, Betty tried for a more conciliating tone.

“I’ve known Jughead since _kindergarten_ ,” she said reasonably. “And so has our entire family. I’m fairly certain we know who he is.”

“And his jail-bird father?” Polly demanded nastily.

Betty stared at her in shock. She felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. The sister she adored… the one she’d counted on as an ally… the one she’d worried about for months... put her own life on hold to find when their parents sent her away... brought home almost through the sheer force of her will – with Jughead’s assistance, ironically enough – sounded as though she were channeling their mother.

A glance at the clock told her she had no more time for argument, though, unless she wanted to risk leaving Jughead waiting on the steps of the school. She’d have to run there as it was.

Without another word, just a single, searing glance of betrayal towards her sister, she slung her backpack over her shoulder and walked out the door.


	24. Chapter 24

### Chapter 24

“My dad’s been lying to me my whole life,” Jughead said, “but he’s never been any _good_ at it.” He sighed. “I saw it in his eyes. He didn’t do it.”

“Then why lie?” Betty asked. Her words may have sounded challenging, but Jughead knew she was thinking out loud, searching for an answer, not disagreeing with him.

“And why?” Jughead added. “He’s got to be pretty invested to confess to a murder he didn’t commit. No one ever called Dad a strategist,” he continued ruefully, “but he’s not an idiot.”

Betty squeezed his hand, but didn’t take her eyes off the board they’d constructed in the _Blue and Gold_ office at Riverdale High, outlining their theories and their suspects.

“Are we assuming it’s the real killer he’s protecting?” she asked him.

“As opposed to?” Jughead asked, startled by the question.

Betty shrugged helplessly, her lips pursed in a little moué of frustration. “I don’t know, Jug,” she said. “Someone else? Someone who’d be hurt by revealing the killer’s identity? Someone innocent but… complicit or involved in some way…”

Jughead shook his head. “I’m no longer convinced that anyone in Riverdale’s innocent, Betts,” he said.

“Something’s just not _right_ ,” Betty said in frustration. “I can _feel_ it, but I can’t put my finger on it. We're missing something, somewhere. I just… I can’t see FP protecting an actual killer.”

“Betty,” Jughead began warningly, but she cut him off, shaking her head impatiently.

“I’m not romanticizing him, Juggie,” she said. “I know he’s in a gang. I know he took a pay-off to trash the drive-in, even knowing you were living there. I know he’s probably done some pretty shady stuff I haven’t even guessed at. But, Jug… he _isn’t_ a killer. And I don’t think he’d knowingly keep a killer free in the town where _you_ live. He just… wouldn’t.”

Jughead tried to resist the seductive lure of her words. Against his will, he loved the idea that his father cared that much about protecting him… that he wouldn’t even _consider_ letting a killer stay free in his vicinity. But a lifetime of disappointment had taught him not to trust in anyone’s protection but his own, and not to buy into any rosy vision of his father’s capabilities or limits.

“But what other reason could he have?” Jughead argued, rather than voicing his thoughts. “What else would he be protecting anyone from?

“He’s not just failing to come forward with information here, Bets. He’s confessed to a murder you and _I_ know he didn’t commit. He’s looking at _decades_ in prison. _Why_? That’s too high a price to pay to save someone from embarrassment; I think we _have_ to assume he’s trading his freedom for theirs.”

“So, we’re back to square one?” Betty asked him. “To catch a murderer?” He nodded grimly in reply. Together, they faced their murder board again.

“Okay,” Jughead asked. “Who can we rule out?”

“My dad,” Betty began. “We _know_ why _he_ was acting so shady.” She rolled her eyes as Hal Cooper’s picture came off the board, still unable to believe the extremes to which he’d gone to protect a secret that amounted to nothing more than a name change three generations ago, and an increasingly distant relationship to one of the town’s founding families.

“Hermione,” she added, and another photo came down. “Veronica says she was guilty of _plenty_ , but not murder. Plus, she has an alibi. She was in New York.”

Together they surveyed the board, now reduced to only a handful of suspects.

“Guess that just leaves Hiram Lodge,” Jughead stated the obvious.

“And Clifford and Penelope Blossom,” Betty added. “ _God!_ Can we just have it be all of them?” she asked, perching on the edge of a table, her shoulders dropping with fatigue and discouragement. “I’m just so tired of this… the secrets, the darkness…

“Not to mention, none of them seem like particularly nice people,” she added. “Can they just _all_ be guilty, so this can be done and they can all just… go away?”

“I don’t think it works that way, Bets,” Jughead said, perching beside her on the table, his arm naturally settling around her waist. “Although I’ll grant you, the idea does have appeal,” he added, as she rested her head against his shoulder.

“Still, it hasn’t _all_ been terrible,” he added thoughtfully. “This investigation played a fairly major role in helping _you_ to capture my regard. Imagine if you were still suffering the pangs of unrequited longing.” She shoved him slightly in response to his teasing, but didn’t lift her head from his shoulder.

“It’s inspired some of my best writing ever," Jughead continued. "It’s showed us a different side of Riverdale… one that was probably there all along, hidden beneath the surface.

“But… yeah. I know what you’re saying. I’m just… ready for a respite, for this all to be done. Right now, I’d love a bit of tedium. What would it be like to just… be together? No lives in the balance. No dark underbelly. No sword of Damocles over our heads. Nothing more demanding to do than share a milkshake with you at Pop’s and try to steal a few kisses on the way home.”

“Silly,” Betty said, bumping his shoulder with her own. “ _You_ don’t share milkshakes.” Despite her teasing, there was a sadness in the air, a heaviness to the silence that fell over them both. But its tenure was short lived.

“Well, what have we here?” Alice Cooper asked briskly as she breezed into the room, shattering both its tranquility and the strange melancholy that had settled over the moment. “You two just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?” she asked, her tone brittle as she took off her jacket and faced them.

Jughead wondered idly just what it was about the current situation that seemed “well enough” to Alice. His father’s imprisonment? His own impending eviction from the Andrews’ home? Betty’s bleeding palms? Polly’s pregnancy, with no hope of help from the babies’ murdered father? But it hardly seemed worth asking the question. Like most things Alice Cooper said, her words had been chosen for rhetorical flourish rather than to make a substantive point.

“Mom,” Betty sighed, “we know what you’re going to say.”

“The police found another dead body,” Alice said as if Betty hadn’t spoken.

“Okay,” Jughead amended, trying to process that particular newsflash. “Maybe not _that_.”

“A South Side Serpent,” Alice said with relish, “and Sheriff Clueless is convinced that he was working with _your_ father.” She indicated Jughead. “He _allegedly_ committed suicide by overdose, and there was a bag of money on-site that links him to Hiram Lodge. Everything is tied up into a nice little bow. Too tidy, if you ask me.”

Before either of them could answer her, Betty’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen before answering.

“Kevin?” she said, as soon as she picked up. “Uh… okay. We’ll meet you there.”


	25. Chapter 25

### Chapter 25

Kevin was waiting at Pop’s when Betty and Jughead arrived. He looked pale and anxious.

“Is it true your dad found another dead body?” Betty tried to verify her mother’s story as slid into the booth, facing Kevin across the table.

“No,” Kevin answered tersely. “ _We_ did.”

“We, who?” Betty asked, too surprised to frame a complete sentence.

“Veronica, Archie and me,” Kevin answered. “Also, Joaquin, although that is very definitely _not_ part of the official record. Actually, strike that. Let’s just agree, right here and now, that _Joaquin_ is not part of the official record. Or _any_ record.

"Would it be overkill if I started referring to him as ‘He Who Must Not Be Named?’” he added musingly.

“It might make your dates a little awkward,” Jughead answered, brows raised.

“Yes, Jughead,” Kevin replied dryly. “ _Clearly_ , I am expunging him from my vocabulary and personal memory banks because our relationship is going just _swimmingly_. Our future dates are sure to be both numerous _and_ legendary.” He rolled his eyes at Betty, but his usual irreverence seemed forced, flat somehow. His eyes looked dark and haunted in his pale face, and Betty was somehow certain that had more to do with Joaquin and whatever had happened between him and Kevin than with the discovery of another dead body.

“Kev,” Betty leaned across the table to place a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

“Not even close,” he answered, his words in direct contradiction to the affirmative nod of his head and the toothy smile pasted across his face, “but we don’t have time for that right now. There’s skulking to be done.”

“Who’s… skulking?” Jughead asked.

“We are,” Kevin assured him, “or _will_ be, when you two get with the program. Joaquin,” he grimaced as he said the name, “didn’t think anyone else knew about it, but we can’t count on that to keep anyone from finding it.”

Betty and Jughead exchanged blank glances. Kevin always moved quickly from subject to subject, but usually, they were able to follow him with a bit more ease. “Finding _what_ , exactly?” It was Betty who voiced the question on both their minds.

Kevin sighed. “Look, I’ll explain everything, but I am in _deep_ breakup mode right now, and if we don’t leave this diner _immediately_ , I will hold you both _personally_ responsible for the cholesterol-saturated consequences.”

Betty glanced at Jughead, who shrugged and stood. Betty followed him, stopping quickly at the counter on the way to the door.

“Hey, Pop,” she said. “Is it okay if I leave my backpack here?” Pop Tate nodded and smiled, and she pocketed a couple of flashlights from the bag before stashing it behind the counter and following Kevin out the door.

“So?” Betty prompted as they stepped into the parking lot, brightly lit, but encircled by darkness. But it was Jughead Kevin turned towards.

“You remember Archie’s mom said FP used his one phone call to call Joaquin?”

Jughead nodded, even as Betty all but shrieked “What? _Why???_ ”

“That’s what Archie wanted to know,” Kevin answered.” So he, Veronica and I went to see Joaquin.” He hadn’t stopped moving since they’d stepped outdoors, and by now, they had reached the edge of the parking lot. Without pausing, Kevin led them into the woods that bordered most of the town.

“ _And_?” Betty demanded impatiently.

Kevin shrugged with unconvincing nonchalance. “It took a while to get there, but the bottom line is that Joaquin helped FP stash Jason’s body in a freezer in the basement of the White Worm on the night of July 11th.” Jughead made an almost inaudible sound of anguish, and Betty slipped her arm through his, squeezing it gently in a gesture of support, but neither of them interrupted Kevin’s narrative. “Then they… cleaned up. The, um... blood and… evidence.

“Joaquin said there was only one other person who knew about the… clean-up job. A Serpent named Mustang. So, we went to talk to him… but he wasn’t particularly… chatty.”

“The dead body?” Jughead asked, and Kevin nodded.

“Joaquin flipped out,” Kevin continued. “Said he ‘couldn’t be there,’ and then just… melted away before my dad and the rest of the force showed up.” He was trying to stay factual, but Betty could hear the hurt, the disappointment, throbbing in his voice.

“And how did that go?” she asked sympathetically.

“Pretty much as you’d _expect_ it to go when the Sheriff’s son finds his second dead body in as many months,” Kevin answered. “The fact that I found it while prowling around a dive motel only added to the glory of the moment. Fred and Hermione were equally impressed, _naturally_ , to have Archie and Veronica as the supporting cast for the whole adventure.”

“It’s still not clear to me why we’re suddenly taking up nocturnal hiking,” Jughead said after a pause during which Kevin seemed disinclined to say more.

“Joaquin left town,” Kevin said abruptly, and Betty and Jughead again exchanged glances at his apparent _non sequitur_.

“I’m sorry, Kev…” Betty began, but Kevin waved her off.

“After the whole reunion in the motel parking lot wrapped up and the various parents drove off with their respective offspring in tow, I went to the bus station to say good-bye to him. _God!_ I am _such_ a sucker!” he added with a sudden break in his usual suave and sassy demeanour.

Betty reached out her free hand to pat his arm reassuringly, but didn’t interrupt. After a moment, Kevin collected himself and continued, his voice still raw and stripped of its usual buoyancy.

“After he was on the bus,” Kevin explained, “Joaquin told me FP gave him something… a bag of some kind. Told him to hide it in case things turned sour. He told me where he’d put it.”

“A bag?” Jughead asked, but Kevin shook his head.

“I don’t know any more than that,” he said. “The bus was leaving. And I don’t want to get your hopes up, Jughead. Joaquin _assumes_ that your dad killed Jason, even if he didn’t see him pull the trigger. That aside, whatever it is we’re looking for, Joaquin didn’t know if it would help your dad, or make things worse.”

“Well, I guess we’re going to find out,” Betty said. The woods were fully dark now. She had let go of Jughead’s arm to free up her hand for a flashlight, the twin of the one he was carrying. Through the heavy mist that hung over the ground, she could just make out the gap in the trees to her left that was highway 40. Although tonight was foggy, rather than rainy as it had been the night she and Jughead found Jason’s car, she was hit with a wave of _déja vu_. “Why did he wait so long to tell us?”

“FP called him from jail,” Kevin answered. “Told him to forget about their plan… some _contingency_ plan. He said it was too dangerous.”

“ _Déja vu_ ,” Jughead said grimly, unconsciously echoing Betty’s thoughts of a moment earlier as they reached a pile of brush and tree branches beneath a weathered billboard advertising Blossom Maple Farms… the precise location where they had found Jason’s car hidden, and had later watched it burn. An icy chill crept up Betty’s spine, as they played the beam of their flashlights over the tangled branches.

“Hey! Right here,” Jughead exclaimed, bending to scrabble in the undergrowth. Betty and Kevin helped him to push aside the branches, and he pulled out a duffle bag that had been concealed beneath them. With a sense of anticipation, he unzipped the bag, reaching in to withdraw a letterman’s jacket… Jason’s jacket. The same one he and Betty had last seen in the trunk of a car that had been on fire by the time they returned with the Sheriff.

“Call Archie and Veronica,” Betty said when she found her voice. “They’ll want to be part of this.”

“Assuming neither of them has been locked in a tower or shipped to a Swiss finishing school to prevent any more grisly discoveries,” Kevin added, but he was already dialing his phone as he spoke.


	26. Chapter 26

### Chapter 26

Betty put down her phone, her stomach still churning as it had been since she’d snapped the laptop shut, hiding the image of Jason Blossom bleeding on the floor of a bar basement, the chilling conclusion of the video stored on the thumb drive they’d found in the lining of Jason’s jacket.

She’d called his sister, warned her to get away from her house, her parents. She’d snapped into action, knowing immediately that what she’d just witnessed was all too real. 

And yet, a sense of unreality persisted. Her palms were itching, and she focused on keeping her hands open, relaxed as she took deep, calming breaths and fought to resist the urge to retch. 

She wasn’t a fan of the Blossom family… _any_ of them, really. She’d been raised in a home that openly disdained the Blossoms and all they stood for, for reasons she’d recently learned weren’t entirely pure. And Cheryl’s bullying, coupled with Jason’s callous treatment of Polly, had given her very personal reasons for perpetuating the family grudge. 

But none of that could have made her indifferent to the sight of Clifford Blossom calmly, almost casually, shooting his own son in the head. 

Her ears were ringing again, and she struggled to stay present in her body, to keep her hands open, unscathed. 

A moment later, Jughead reached from where he sat, forgotten, behind her on the back of the couch where they’d all gathered to view the video. He gently tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear before slipping his arms around her waist, drawing her closer to him… close enough that he could cover her hands with his own. He _knew_ … he’d recognized her struggle, and he was letting her know she wasn’t alone. She breathed a sigh of relief, the sense of unreality leaving her as she settled gratefully back into his comfortably solid warmth. 

“The police _need_ to see this,” she said, the strength she’d borrowed from Jughead making her the first to find her voice after the horror of what they’d just seen together. “Kevin, can you…” 

But Kevin was already shaking his head vehemently. 

“Your dad _has_ to see this, Kev,” Betty insisted. 

“Oh, he has to see it all right,” Kevin agreed, “but _believe_ me when I tell you it’s better if it doesn’t come from me… from _any_ of us,” he added, correctly interpreting Betty’s intentions as she reached for her phone. “Mere _hours_ ago, he warned several people in this room to quit poking around the Jason Blossom case.” 

“He didn’t warn _me_ ,” Betty insisted, reaching for her phone again, but Kevin was shaking his head again… or possibly still. 

“Betty, seriously, we have to find another way. If he gets this footage from _any_ of us, there’s going to be days… maybe weeks… of whys and wherefores and warnings before they even get around to _viewing_ it. The Sheriff’s department is not hugely receptive to teenaged tipsters at the moment,” Kevin warned her. 

“So we get an adult to give it to them,” Betty said, as if the solution were obvious. 

“Well… my dad just _might_ be seen as a less-than-reliable… mayhap even _biased_ source,” Jughead said dryly after a long pause. “Not to mention the difficulty of actually getting this into his hands.” 

“Mother’s not much better,” Veronica agreed. “She’s packing her Louis Vuitton bags as we speak, ready to fly the Riverdale coop. She’s not about to wade into the foreground of this little drama.

"Of course, she might not carry much weight with Sheriff Keller anyway. Lest we forget, when last we saw _him_ , he was clutching a Lodge-monogrammed bag of money and eyeing us both with deep suspicion.” 

“ _My_ Dad’s already making noises about sending me to Chicago to live with my Mom,” Archie chimed in. “He’s convinced I’m going to get killed if I stay here. I’d like to _think_ he’d help us but, honestly, I think he might be too busy driving me straight to the airport.” 

“So we go to my mom,” Betty said simply. “She’s _perfect_.” She made a face at their stunned expressions. “ _For this_ ,” she clarified with some disgust. “She’s perfect _for this_. 

“She’s never been implicated in any of Riverdale’s recent crime wave. And she’s a journalist – not to mention nosy as hell – so no one will be surprised she was poking around the story.” 

“Plus, my dad is terrified of her,” Kevin offered. 

“So’m I,” Archie and Jughead muttered simultaneously. 

Betty sighed with exaggerated patience. “Just give it to me then,” she said, holding out her hand, and Veronica slapped the drive into it. “ _I’ll_ give it to her.” 

“Won’t she want to know where you got it?” Archie asked practically. 

“I doubt it,” Betty answered honestly as she shrugged. “Between the visions of Pulitzers dancing in her head and the chance to discredit the Blossoms, she probably won’t even think to ask.” 

“And if my _dad_ asks her where it came from?” Kevin asked skeptically. 

Betty shrugged again. Privately, she didn’t think it likely that Sheriff Keller would look too carefully at the origins of the evidence he and his entire police force had failed to find in months of investigation. But she was too tired and heartsick to get into _that_ discussion at the moment. “He won’t,” she said with as much assurance as she could muster. “’Terrified,’ remember? And even if he _did_ ask… she would _love_ to go to jail for protecting a source. 

“Honestly, it wouldn’t take 10 minutes for her to convince herself that she got the drive from some underworld character she managed to build rapport with because of her superior investigative skills. By the time she gets to the Sheriff’s office, she probably won’t even remember it came from me.” 

She knew she’d won, even before she saw her friends’ reluctant nods. And, with a job to do, a way for her to help, her sense of unreality was fading; the next step was crystal clear, and that clarity grounded her. 

Rising swiftly, she pulled on her jacket and pocketed the thumb drive they’d found, the footage she knew would haunt her for the rest of her life. 

“You’re going _now_?” Archie asked in surprise. 

“Why not?” she responded, shaking her head a little in impatience. “Is there something we’re waiting for? A permission slip? An invitation? A _resurrection_ , perhaps?” 

“No,” Archie said, sounding slightly hurt at her tone. “It’s just… it’s… late…” he finished lamely. 

“Mom was _there_ when Kevin called me,” she replied. “Ten to one, she’s been waiting by the door, phone in hand, for _hours_ , to hear what’s up. And if she’s not?” Betty shrugged eloquently once again. “For a scoop like _this_ , she’d never forgive me for _not_ waking her.” 

As she headed towards the door, Jughead followed her. 

“You’re coming?” she challenged him, eyebrows raised. “I thought my mother terrified you.” 

“She does,” he answered with assumed nonchalance. “I figure you’ll protect me. Besides,” he added more quietly, taking her hand and speaking almost into her ear, “I don’t want you to be alone when she charges off to save the world. Not after what we just saw.” 

Betty squeezed his hand, meeting his gaze silently for a moment. She was more touched than she wanted to say in front of their friends by his caring. She knew, as they couldn’t, that Jughead wanted to stay with her to protect her from herself, to give her someone to share her feelings with, so they wouldn’t turn into self-destruction. And, when it came right down to it, _she_ didn’t want to be alone tonight any more than Jughead wanted to leave her. 

“G’night everyone,” she called, never taking her eyes off Jughead’s as she raised her free hand to wave casually. 

And, hand in hand, she and Jughead walked out the door. 

*** 

“So… does that mean the Scooby gang is dismissed?” Veronica asked the room that felt oddly deserted after Betty and Jughead’s departure. 

“It would appear so,” Kevin answered, still staring wistfully at the door through which they’d exited. “Was it me, or did that just _totally_ forget that we were here?” he added. 

“Betty was trying to get evidence into your Dad’s hands, Kevin,” Archie said reasonably, ignoring his own twinge of loneliness. “ _I’ll_ feel better when that’s done. Can you honestly tell me you think they should hang around chatting with _us_ while Clifford Blossom sits in his mansion and FP sits in jail?” 

“Valid,” Kevin acknowledged. “But still, I didn’t expect to feel so…” he trailed off. 

“Invisible?” Archie supplied ruefully, and Kevin nodded. “Welcome to _my _/ world, man. That seems to be the new normal.”__

____

“So what do us superfluous Scoobies do?” Veronica asked. 

____

“Pop’s?” Archie suggested. 

____

Kevin groaned. “Don’t tempt me! After the roller coaster of this day, eating my feelings could turn tragic, fast!” 

____

“Come on, Penelope,” Veronica said, pulling him to his feet. “Break-up burgers are calorie-neutral. Besides, if you go home _now_ , you might be there when Alice Cooper shows up looking for your dad.” 

____

“Dear God!” Kevin shuddered. “This day has been traumatic enough already. Lead on.” 

____

*** 

____

The hand-off to Alice had gone pretty much as Betty had predicted. As soon as she’d heard the words “Clifford Blossom” and “shot Jason” in the same sentence, Alice had shifted into predatory mode. 

____

On one hand, Jughead admired the efficiency with which she tracked down Sheriff Keller with a few well-placed phone calls, intent on placing the incriminating footage into his hands immediately. 

____

On the other hand, he found her indifference to her daughter – her complete lack of interest in Betty’s well-being after witnessing a murder – chilling. As soon as she’d confirmed the location of her quarry – Sheriff Keller was, apparently, in conference in the mayor’s office despite the late hour – Alice was out the door without a backwards glance. 

____

Leaving Jughead and Betty alone in the kitchen of a sleeping house. 

____

“Hey there, Juliet,” he said softly, bumping her shoulder with his. “You okay?” 

____

Without a word, Betty turned and stepped right into his personal space, tipping her head to rest her forehead against his chest. His arms just naturally settled around her, his fingers gently massaging the small of her back. 

____

“I’ll be okay if you stay,” she answered, nestling closer as she spoke. 

____

“Of course,” he answered without hesitation. When had he ever been able to say ‘no’ to her? “Is the ladder still at your window?” 

____

Betty raised her head at that to look him square in the eye; the expression on her face was pure ‘are you kidding me?’” 

____

“My mother is _gone_ , Jughead,” she said in the voice of one stating the obvious. “My dad has probably been asleep for _hours_ … in front of the television, for the added benefit of white noise. _Polly_ was dead to the world 10 minutes after supper. I’m not sure whether that’s a pregnancy thing, or a by-product of her recent escape from Witch Mountain. Either way… is there some reason you can’t just walk up the stairs with me right now?” 

____

Oddly enough, that option simply hadn’t occurred to Jughead until she’d mentioned it. 

____

“Well,” he heaved a theatrical sigh, even as he grinned sheepishly “it _does_ lack a certain poetic whimsy. But I shall persevere.” 

____

And, slipping his arm around Betty’s waist, he walked with her slowly up the stairs.

____


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Raptorlily, who prompted the "discovery." I still want to see _your_ version, though!

### Chapter 27

In hindsight, Jughead reflected, he probably should have seen this coming. It was predictable – indeed, almost inevitable – that Alice Cooper would want to detail her triumph over the Sheriff and the Blossoms to a captive audience. It was completely characteristic of her and, if he were being honest, Jughead could relate to the impulse. If _he’d_ just brought the Sheriff, a man he’d recently come to disdain with uncharacteristically passionate vigor, to heel while discrediting a lifelong enemy, _he’d_ probably want an audience, too. That was just human nature.

But that philosophical reflection was not particularly helpful to him at the moment as he lay, Betty still wrapped tightly in his arms, blinking owlishly into Alice’s startled face in the sudden blaze of light.

He’d been shivering when they came to bed, he remembered irrelevantly. The click of Betty’s door closing behind them seemed to have snapped him to awareness of everything that had just happened, shattering his carefully cultivated detachment. Seeing Jason Blossom killed in cold blood – by his own father, no less – before their very eyes… having proof of FP’s innocence, simultaneously a relief and a source of new guilt for not having more faith in his father… another slog through dark and dripping woods, questing for the truth with Betty by his side… all of it had suddenly become too much. His legs had given out beneath him, and he’d dropped to the floor as he started to shake.

He’d come home with Betty out of concern for _her_ … yet somehow, _she’d_ ended up being the one to support _him_. She’d held him close until he could stand, then drawn him down beside her on her bed and soothed him with the blessed calm of her presence, the anchor of her touch. And gradually, his shaking had stopped, and he’d been able to give comfort as well as receive it. Eventually, gently, they’d soothed each other to sleep.

Only to be awakened now at oh-my-God-o-clock by Betty’s mother bursting into the room, already mid-monologue as she snapped on the light… and then fell abruptly, disbelievingly silent as she emerged from her self-absorption enough to notice the rangy teen entangled with her daughter on the bed.

For a frozen moment, the three of them stared at one another… 

… Jughead, irritated, disoriented, wanting only to turn the lights off again and make Alice go away so that he and Betty could carry each other back into the Heaven they’d created here in her room;

… Alice, her astonishment already morphing into outrage;

… and Betty, adorably flushed and mussed from sleep, breaking Jughead’s heart as her sleepy confusion was replaced with dawning terror.

It was that terror, more than anything, that spurred Jughead to gather his sleep-addled wits. _No one_ – not even her own mother – was going to terrorize Betty like that without his at least _trying_ to help.

“ _What_ the _hell_ …” Alice spat, her face livid, her lips twisted into a snarl, “is going on here?”

“Mom,” Betty began helplessly, shrinking into herself, her hands balling into fists that concerned Jughead deeply.

“It’s not enough that _Polly_ brought shame on this family?” Alice was practically shrieking as she loomed over them. “Now _you’re_ following in her footsteps? How _dare_ you?” she demanded, taking a menacing step forwards. “Just who do you think you are?

“And _you_ …” she rounded on Jughead, by now appearing quite deranged as flecks of spittle flew from her lips, her eyes bugging from her face. “What do you think _you’re_ doing here?”

Taking his courage into his hands – and feeling oddly, disproportionately comforted that at least he was wearing pants – Jughead responded.

“ _I_ am taking care of Betty,” he said icily… and not entirely truthfully. That _had_ been his intention in staying, but in the end he’d received at least as much support as he’d given. On the other hand, Betty – who’d been a rock throughout the murder video and its aftermath – seemed borderline catatonic with fear at the moment. Maybe it was true after all; he _was_ taking care of her now, since _now_ appeared to be when she actually needed taking care of.

“Taking care…” Alice echoed on a huff of disbelief.

“ _Someone_ has to.” He looked her squarely in the eye. “In case you’ve forgotten, she witnessed a murder tonight… the murder of someone she knew… someone who would have been her brother-in-law if he’d lived. After weeks of following leads no one else was even looking for, and hunting down evidence that the entire _Sheriff’s department_ had missed, she found the final proof… and watched someone she knew get shot as her reward.

“But you wouldn’t know anything about _that_ , would you?” he added sarcastically. “You were so busy chasing glory that someone _else_ earned, and pursuing your vendetta against the Blossoms… you never even _considered_ Betty, did you?” he challenged her.

“So _yeah_ ,” he continued. “I stayed to take care of Betty… to just _be_ with her and be _here_ for her and listen if she needed to talk.” At that, he rested one hand lightly on top of Betty’s, a silent reminder to keep her hands relaxed. “After what she’s been through tonight… after what she’s been through this _year_ , for that matter, she shouldn’t have to be alone. She could probably have really used her mom, of course. But since _you_ couldn’t be bothered, she had to settle for me.”

The total blank of Alice’s expression was almost comical. For probably the first time in her life, she was speechless.

Actually, her reaction would probably have been _full-on_ comical if he hadn’t happened to glance at Betty and become immediately and utterly distracted. Gone was her cringing terror, the tension that had etched every line of her body. Instead, she was gazing at him – totally ignoring her mother – with glowing eyes and an expression she might have worn if she’d just watched him save a school bus full of children and puppies, and then bring Biggie and Tupac back from the dead.

Much as he loved having her look at him that way -- and he really, _really_ did; he could think of far worse fates than spending the rest of his life coming up with ways to make her _keep_ looking at him like that – her expression brought home to him, in a way nothing else could have, that this was probably the first time in her life that _anyone_ had stood up for her in the face of her mother’s bullying. The unfairness of that took his breath away for a moment and stung his eyes.

But then Betty glanced at her mother, whose mouth was still agape as she tried to recover from Jughead’s unexpected counter-attack, and her expression shifted yet again, this time to one of faint amusement. She _almost_ looked as if she were suddenly enjoying herself.

Sure enough, before Alice could even find her voice, Betty cast Jughead a look that was almost a wink, and squeezed his hand.

“Watch this,” he could practically hear her saying, though she hadn’t spoken a word.

“You must be _exhausted_ , Mom,” Betty said solicitously… and out loud, patting the edge of the bed invitingly. “Are you just getting home now?”

“It has been a long, _long_ night,” Alice sighed theatrically as she sank down on the edge of the bed, at about the level of Jughead’s knees, apparently so off-balance from his unprecedented scolding that she had forgotten – at least temporarily – that he had no business being there.

“Tell me all about it,” Betty urged, and Jughead had to stifle a snicker at her exaggerated eagerness. He could read her intentions – defuse and deflect – as clearly as if she’d printed them on a page. But her mother was oblivious, clearly more than ready to return to the story she’d barged in here to tell.

“Well,” Alice began, tipping her head back, making the most of her moment with her daughter’s undivided attention “Sheriff Clueless and Mayor McCheese were holed up in her office doing _God_ knows what when I arrived. They weren’t especially _keen_ on being interrupted, either; they tried to make me set an appointment later in the week. But I, _naturally_ , insisted that this couldn’t wait. “Of course, once they’d seen that footage I unearthed, they changed their tune pretty quickly,” she added triumphantly.

“ _Who_ unearthed?” Jughead muttered, but Betty elbowed him in the ribs, hard, and he obediently shut up. She had a point, after all; why draw her mother’s attention to himself when she’d apparently forgotten him?

“ _Then_ , of course, things couldn’t move fast enough. It was total chaos,” Alice added reminiscently. Either she hadn’t heard Jughead, or she was ignoring his comment. “Getting warrants and calling for backup and briefings and planning… By the time we got to Thornill…”

“ _We?_ ” It was Betty who interrupted this time. “What were _you_ doing there?”

“I _followed_ them in my _car_ ,” Alice said as if it should have been obvious. “I had a perfect right to do so; it’s a free country. And anyway, _I’m_ the journalist who cracked the case.” Betty elbowed Jughead pre-emptively this time, before he could make a sound. “They couldn’t have expected to leave _me_ behind.”

“Of course, Mom,” Betty said, rolling her eyes at Jughead when Alice wasn’t looking. “So… warrants… backup… have they already arrested Clifford Blossom?”

“They couldn’t,” Alice said with relish. “That’s what I was telling you. By the time we got to Thornhill, it was too late!”

Betty and Jughead looked at each other with identically baffled expressions, waiting for an explanation.

“Dead!” Alice explained succinctly, her tone just a touch too gleeful to be merely matter-of-fact. Betty gasped, and Jughead slipped his arm around her again as Alice expanded her response. “He hanged himself in that clichéd old barn of theirs.”

“Oh my God, Mom!” Betty whispered, her sly amusement abruptly erased from her face. “Did he...” she swallowed and tried again. “Did he hurt anyone else?” Jughead knew she was thinking of Cheryl.

“A murder-suicide,” Alice mused, and there was no mistaking the longing in her tone. “Now _that_ would be a national story.” Correctly interpreting Betty’s horrified expression, she added hastily, “But a terrible tragedy, of course!

“No,” she said, returning to Betty’s question. Penelope and Cheryl are fine. Evil and soulless and pretentious, mind you, But otherwise? _Just fine_.”

“So, what’s happening now?” Betty asked. Jughead wanted to know too, but he’d decided to stay silent as much as possible. It was hard to believe Alice could forget his presence when her hip was all but bumping his leg… but there was certainly no harm in hoping.

“Oh, the Sheriff and his minions are ‘securing the area,’ making lots of noise and fuss now that it’s too late to change anything,” she said dismissively. “There’s still something fishy in that barn, though. They pushed me out pretty quick after they found ol’ Clifford at the end of his rope, so to speak. But I got one good look before a slack-jawed Deputy pushed me out of there, and Clifford had kicked over a couple of his syrup barrels. I don’t know what it was they’d spilled out… but it definitely _wasn’t_ maple syrup.” She stood and stretched.

“It’s going to be a busy day,” she said briskly. “I plan to be waiting at his office when Sheriff Clueless gets back. I’d better turn in now; make sure my competitive edge is sharp when I see him.” She walked towards the door, and paused in the doorway. Without turning back, she added “I’m certain that when I come back in daylight, the Jughead-shaped shadow in your bed will have melted away.” Then, she stepped into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind her.


	28. Chapter 28

### Chapter 28

“I liked it better when Sheriff Keller and the Mayor thought my _mom_ found the footage,” Betty grumbled two days later as she sat with her friends in the cafeteria at Riverdale High. “All this _enthusiasm_ is… weird.” She shook her head.

“How’d they find out it was us?” Kevin asked, his tone slightly accusatory.

“Mom,” Betty answered simply and without apology. “I guess your dad _finally_ got around to asking where it came from and… she told him.”

“So much for protecting a source,” Kevin said bitterly.

“She didn’t _need_ to protect a source, Kev,” Betty defended. “We only wanted her to give the drive to the police so they’d _act_ instead of _wasting_ time scolding us. Now… the wheels are in motion. There’s no _reason_ to hide the truth.”

“Easy for _you_ to say,” Kevin countered. “I’m still being serenaded with hourly choruses of ‘I’m the Sheriff, and you’re not!’”

“You could respond with a jazzy little rendition of _I Shot the Sheriff_ ,” Jughead suggested, tongue firmly in cheek, and Kevin made an expressive gesture in his direction.

“So, what exactly did the Mayor want?” Veronica asked, returning the topic to Betty and Archie’s summons to Principal Weatherbee’s office just before the bell rang signalling lunch break.

“Us, on stage, at the Jubilee,” Archie said, at the exact moment that Betty replied, “ _Mascots_ for her squeaky clean and completely _fictitious_ version of Riverdale.” They exchanged a glance, Archie looking startled at her bitterness, Betty looking exasperated with his simplicity.

“But _only_ us,” Betty continued. “No Juggie…”

“Too close to FP,” Kevin interpreted, nodding wisely.

“… no Kevin…”

“Too close to the Sheriff,”

“… no Veronica…”

“No one likes a slutty city girl,” Kevin concluded his colour commentary.

“ _I_ do,” Archie protested, then flushed as he realized what he’d just implied. “I mean, I like _Ronnie_ ,” he hastened to add, slightly desperately. “And I’m glad she’s here and not in the city and…”

Betty and Veronica rolled their eyes in unison. “Relax, Archiekins,” Veronica said, rescuing him from his floundering. “I take no offense at Kevin’s less-than-chivalrous aspersions on my character, _or_ at your immediate recognition of me from his ‘male gaze’ description.”

“Anyway,” Betty said, ignoring both Kevin’s comments and Veronica and Archie’s by-play, “I told her I wouldn’t do it. _Not_ unless you’re up there with us, Jug.”

“I appreciate the righteous indignation, Betty, I do,” Jughead said dryly. He could tell she was dead serious about this, but he couldn’t completely suppress the smile tugging at his lips. In the midst of the insanity that was his life right now, a place on the Jubilee stage was the very _least_ of his concerns. “But… ‘Jubilees’ aren’t really my thing.”

“Jug, how’s your dad?” Archie changed the subject. “Did you get in to see him?”

“Here’s the latest,” Jughead turned serious, fast. “Mayor McCoy wants my dad to name names in exchange for a lesser sentence.”

“What?” Betty asked incredulously. “ _Whose_ names?”

“Serpents,” Jughead answered succinctly. “Sheriff Keller thinks _they’re_ the ones dealing the drugs that Clifford Blossom brought into the town.”

“My dad says more and more drugs are hitting the streets,” Kevin added.

“Kevin, relax,” Jughead said. “This isn’t _The Wire_.” He hadn’t meant to sound scornful, but enough of the impatience he was feeling crept into his tone for even _him_ to hear it. He didn’t have the energy to try to soften it at the moment, though, so he pressed on. “My dad says they’re not the ones dealing,” he returned to the point.

“And meanwhile,” Betty interjected, “Mayor McCoy hasn’t even said the words ‘Clifford’ or ‘Blossom’ in public. It’s all about how the _Serpents_ are the problem… the villains.

“This is _outrageous_. I’m writing an article about this. And not just for the _Blue and Gold_ ,” she added with determination. “For the _Register_. This is a _town_ story.”

Jughead eyed her warily. He both loved and admired her passionate courage, her willingness to crusade for what she believed was right. But he wasn’t eager to find himself or his dysfunctional family dragged any further into the limelight than they already had been. The deck was stacked against them, he knew… the Joneses would always get chewed up in Riverdale; it felt inevitable. More attention wouldn’t change that; it would just subject them to more of an audience for their humiliation and exclusion.

“Okay,” he said cautiously, “as long as the article doesn’t include my dad.”

“No, it _is_ going to be about your dad, Jug,” said Betty emphatically, totally missing his lack of enthusiasm. “It doesn’t matter how many _Jubilees_ Mayor McCoy throws; this town’s _changed_. That needs to be _acknowledged_. Why are people so afraid of the truth?”

Jughead figured that question was probably rhetorical, which was fortunate, since he didn’t have an answer for her. All _he_ knew was that his _own_ fear was less about truth than about being subjected to even more scrutiny than he was already living with. Before he could think of a suitable comment, though, he was saved by a raven-haired distraction.

“Speaking… of the truth,” Veronica seemed uncharacteristically uncertain as she pushed herself to her feet, ignoring Archie who was shaking his head frantically and sending her a look of almost comical dismay, “Archie and I wanted to tell you…” she paused awkwardly, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“We’ve… kissed a couple times,” Archie concluded reluctantly, his expression apologetic as he looked at Betty.

There was a pause, and now it was Betty who was struggling to hide a smile. Jughead couldn’t blame her; the level of angst around Archie and Betty’s little announcement or confession or… _whatever_ it was just seemed so… disproportionate.

“It’s okay, V,” Betty said reassuringly, unable to hide the amusement in her tone. “I appreciate you being _honest_ with me. But I’m with _Jughead_ now.” Jughead realized he was smiling too, secure in the knowledge that Betty truly _wasn’t_ pining for Archie, that _he_ held first place in her heart. It was a measure of how far their relationship had come in the past few weeks, and the realization warmed him. They exchanged a glance, glowing, intimate, before Betty turned the full force of her smile and her attention back on their friends. “If you guys want to be together, I’m _happy_ for you,” she said, her sincerity unmistakable.

“Thanks, B,” Veronica said, her own smile profoundly relieved.

“Thanks, Betty,” Archie said at the same time, and he _didn’t_ smile. Jughead wondered if he was imagining the disappointment in Archie’s subdued attitude.

But Betty didn’t appear to notice anything, smiling at Archie and Veronica with undimmed brilliance. She rested her hand on Jughead's leg under the table, just above the knee, and gave it a squeeze. And suddenly, Jughead wasn’t noticing Archie or his expressions either.


	29. Chapter 29

### Chapter 29

Jughead didn’t think of himself as much of a dreamer. Until very recently, he’d have said that his life thus far had proven to him that dreams were the fastest road to disappointment… and he always seemed to get _there_ plenty fast as it was. So he was a realist by choice… a survivor… maybe even a bit of a cynic.

But sometime very recently, a few dreams must have snuck in without his noticing. Maybe they’d crept into his head while he was crafting his articles on the Jason Blossom investigation, imagining a career of work just like this, somewhere far from Riverdale. Maybe they’d lodged in his gut when his dad started showing up for work, cleaning the trailer, reading Jughead’s manuscript. Or maybe they’d stolen into his heart when he’d opened it to let in a girl so sweetly ferocious, so fearlessly kind that she probably counted as a dream in her own right.

He didn’t really know _how_ it happened, or _when_ … and he supposed it didn’t much matter now; no matter when or how, it was abundantly clear that he _had_ been harbouring at least one or two dreams. Because right at this moment, he could feel them falling to pieces all around him.

It had been bad enough listening to Ms. Weiss, from Social Services, dance euphemistically around his mother’s unwillingness to parent him, to have any involvement in his care, even in his current extremity.

But when Archie confidently asserted that Jughead could keep staying at the Andrews house, one quick glance at Fred’s face had been enough to assure him the solution wouldn’t be that simple.

To do Fred justice, Jughead could tell he’d _tried_ … could see how humiliated he was that Social Services hadn’t deemed him fit to foster Jughead. Honestly, if one DUI and a “cash flow problem” were enough to disqualify caregivers, Jughead was amazed he and Jellybean had been allowed to stay with _their_ parents beyond the age of three.

But the news was deeply unsettling, and not only because it threw his own immediate housing situation into jeopardy. From his perspective, Fred had always seemed like the perfect father… loving and steady and reliable. And, despite some recent setbacks, Jughead had always felt a certain security in the idea that Fred would provide that stability for him, too. DUIs and failing grades from the Social Services authorities did not fit that image. Staring, stricken, at Fred now, Jughead saw, not the source of all safety, but… a man… a good one, to be sure, but still just a man. Fallible and, in this situation, powerless. Confronted with that reality – had he _seriously_ believed himself a realist? – Jughead felt more profoundly alone, more exposed and vulnerable, than he’d ever been in his turbulent life.

“There’s a family on the south side that’s agreed to foster you,” Ms. Weiss was saying. “They’re good people. They’ve worked with us before.”

Foster care. The spectre that had loomed in the shadows of Jughead’s life from his earliest recollection, the threat that had induced him and Jellybean to hide empty lunch boxes and make excuses for school absences when there wasn’t gas money – or a car – to get them there. “Don’t tell anyone, or they’ll put you in foster care” had been their most important house rule from the time he could talk. And even though he _knew_ that foster care wasn’t the threatening boogeyman it had seemed to him in those days, the thought terrified him, adding to his rising sense of panic.

At the same time, he could see the Fred was feeling just as bad as he was at the moment. And, devastated as he was at the discovery of Fred’s feet of clay, Jughead desperately wanted to make all this better for the only adult in his life who’d never let him down.

“It doesn’t sound…” he swallowed, willing his voice not to break, “ _completely_ horrible,” he said. It wasn’t a ringing endorsement, but it was the best he could do; he hoped it was enough to lighten Fred’s burden, because he just didn’t have the strength to do any more right now.

“It _does_ mean you’ll be in a different school district, Jughead, and you’ll have to transfer schools,” Ms. Weiss told him.

Jughead leaned against the door frame into the kitchen, focusing his gaze on a spot in the middle distance, willing himself not to cry, not to show by so much as the flicker of an eyelash that he was bleeding inside, his own desperation threatening to choke him. Everything was slipping away…

His mother had been the first to leave him, taking a tearful Jellybean with her. Then FP had become impossible to live with, even before his incarceration. Now Fred, his last refuge, was being pulled off the field of defence… unwillingly, but inexorably… along with his town… his school… his friends…

Dimly, he heard Archie protesting in the background, heard the social worker answering him. But all that really registered was her conclusion.

“… You’ll be on the south side by the end of the week.”


	30. Chapter 30

### Chapter 30

“By the end of the week?” Betty echoed blankly. “As in, _this_ week?”

Jughead nodded glumly, the movement making his head rock against her stomach. She had been lying on the floor, feet up on her bed, reading a well-thumbed copy of Toni Morrison’s _Beloved_ when he’d tapped on her window and climbed inside. Rather than her moving, he’d simply joined her on the floor, turning his body crosswise to hers and resting his head on her belly like a pillow. Her nearness was comforting and, to be honest, he’d preferred not to have to watch her face as he told her all that had happened since they’d parted ways after school.

He’d gone with Miss Weiss after that nightmare conversation in the Andrews’ kitchen; she’d wanted to quickly introduce him to the foster family, and had dropped him off back at Archie’s after they’d finished.

A half hour of his new family’s company had, at least, allayed the creeping panic of childhood fears that the words “foster care” automatically triggered within him. And their genuine welcome had mitigated somewhat his sense of isolation, of abandonment.

But the drive back had underscored powerfully that sneaking across the lawn to spend the night with Betty was about to become a thing of the past. There was a hollow ache in his chest at the thought of miles between them each night… after days spent at different schools.

“Unless there’s a ‘radical change’ in my dad’s situation,” he confirmed. He didn’t voice his other thoughts. They were too depressing, and Betty already understood anyway. He could practically hear them in the slightly ragged edge to her breath.

“The foster family seems nice,” he added, hoping to inject some optimism. “And… get this,” he sat up and looked at her as he spoke. This reaction, he _did_ want to see. “Their name is actually _Foster_.” He waited a beat as Betty met his gaze, momentarily diverted.

“Your foster family… is the _Foster_ family?” she repeated. He nodded. “You _see_ , Jughead Jones,” she said, her eyes twinkling in spite of herself now, although her lips retained a slight droop, “ _this_ is how I know the universe has destined you for literary greatness. Even your Social Services care arrangement is meta.”

He laughed – briefly, but honestly – and could tell by her expression that had been her intention.

“This won’t change anything between us,” he vowed, taking advantage of the lightened atmosphere to voice the promise he’d already made himself, ignoring the corner of his brain already screaming that such a promise was impossible to keep.

If he’d hoped to reassure Betty, though, he’d misjudged… badly. Her face clouded, her eyes turning dull as she regarded him skeptically from her vantage point, still lying on the floor.

“It won’t change anything.” She repeated his words as a statement, rather than a question, but her tone dripped disbelief.

“It _won’t_ ,” Jughead insisted.

“Apart from, oh… say… _everything_ , that is,” Betty said, sounding almost angry as she sat up to bring them eye to eye.

“Juggie,” she continued, “we walk to school together _every_ morning. We take two or three classes a _day_ together. We eat lunch together… work on the _Blue and Gold_ together… walk home _together_. And then you walk next door to eat supper for the sake of appearances, before sneaking back here so we can spend the night… oh, yeah… _to-geth-er_!

“And now, instead of all that… you’ll be on the other side of town. No walks to school. No lunches. No _Blue and Gold_. No nights like this. South Side High is, like, a 40-minute walk from here! The bus runs… what… twice a day? Are you planning to ask the foster Fosters to give you a lift over here every night so you can climb in my window? Because I've gotta think they'd have a follow-up question on that plan.

“Juggie… I’ll be lucky if I get to see you on _weekends_ once you move! And you think that’s not going to _change_ anything?”

She was only echoing his own thoughts from a few moments ago, yet Jughead felt compelled to argue… after taking a moment to appreciate the marvel of her defining _herself_ as the lucky one in their relationship.

“All of that’s just… geography,” he told her with a confidence he didn’t quite feel.

“ _And_ chronology,” she reminded him, and he had to smile. God, he loved her quick mind.

“That too,” he agreed. “But it’s… superficial. It _is_ ,” he insisted over her huff of disbelief. “The distance… the time… that _is_ going to change, and it _is_ going to suck.

“But that doesn’t change me loving you.” He’d moved closer to her again, almost unaware that he was doing so, and now he cupped her face between both of his. “And it doesn’t change my _belonging_ to you… belonging _with_ you.

“We’ll find a way,” he continued, beginning to believe it more himself as he spoke. “We found Jason Blossom’s real killer, when the entire _Sheriff’s_ department couldn’t. We uncovered a drug racket no one was even _looking_ for. _You_ pretty much single handedly turned notorious ice queen Veronica Lodge into a _reasonably_ likable human being.” She didn’t laugh, but she quirked a half-hearted smile. “We’ll figure this out, too,” he promised her… promised them both.

“Love needs _food_ , Jug,” Betty argued, but he could see that he was getting through to her. “You’re going to be at a new school… in a new world, really… meeting new people… new _girls_ …”

“Are you seriously imagining I could find someone who could replace _you_?” Jughead asked incredulously. He was half flatted by her confidence in his power to attract, half offended by her lack of faith in his constancy, and entirely aghast at her belief in her own disposability.

“I trust you, Juggie,” she said, clearly picking up on at least the hurt and offended part of his reaction. “And I _love_ you. And you know me like no one ever has… maybe like no one ever will.

“But we’ve built _this_ ,” she gestured between them, “by investing in it. We’ve spent hours and _hours_ together. We’ve been honest. We’ve shared experiences and we’ve shared impressions and we’ve figured things out together.

“But you’re going to have _new_ experiences now… _lots_ of them. And other people – _including_ other girls – are going to have a bigger part in those experiences than I will. And if we don’t have time together to at least… connect? No matter how real it is, Juggie, our love is going to starve to death.”

“Then we’ll _make_ time,” Jughead answered stubbornly. “We’ll text. We’ll call. We’ll Skype. I’ll tell the Fosters that I am traumatized and can only heal through training carrier pigeons in their back yard. I’ll walk over here a few times a week, or we’ll meet halfway.

“This was going to happen sooner or later, Cooper,” he pointed out. “Not foster care,” he clarified, seeing her confusion. “But what happens next summer, when Toni Morrison begs you to co-author her next novel and whisks you off to New York to workshop it?

“… or a couple of years down the road, when you get a full scholarship to Harvard, and I’m fully committed to UCLA?

“… or when your publisher simply _insists_ you go on a world-wide tour to promote your latest novel, but I have to stay home and look after our kids?

“Sooner or later, Betty, the idyll must end. If we’re going to last, then _eventually_ we’ll have to deal with a world where our lives don’t run smoothly on parallel tracks, and figure out a way to stay connected.

“I agree with you: love needs food. So we’ll feed it. We may need to change the diet,” Betty rolled her eyes as he pushed the metaphor, “but Social Services can’t stop us from doing that… not even by messing with geography and chronology.”

By now, there were tears in Betty’s eyes, and Jughead was blinking hard himself.

“Look after our kids?” she said, obviously striving for a teasing tone despite her emotional state.

“What, you think we should drag them around the world with us at the behest of your publisher?” he teased back, a bit more successfully. “You’ve been spending too much time with Ronnie.”

Betty laughed a little through her tears, but didn’t lose the thread of the discussion. “Do you actually think that far into the future?” she asked, and he could tell she wasn’t teasing now. His answer mattered to her.

Not usually,” he confessed. “But anytime I _do_ … there you are.”


	31. Chapter 31

### Chapter 31

“I mean, of _course_ the town agrees with Mayor McCoy,” Betty said bitterly. “They don’t know any better! The police… the mayor’s office… the _Register_ … EVERYONE is telling them that the Serpents are the bad guys. _No one_ is telling them the truth. That’s not consensus; it’s collusion!”

When Jughead had arrived, it had still been early enough that he _could_ have walked up to the Cooper’s front door and knocked, confidently expecting to be admitted, if not exactly welcomed. His choice to enter via the window had been equal parts comfort born of familiarity, and reluctance to encounter Alice Cooper, even incidentally, when it wasn’t strictly necessary. Joking aside, the woman terrified him.

The hours had slipped away, though. It was late now, the house silent and sleeping, and he and Betty were conversing in hushed tones as they lay on her bed.

Betty was telling him about her meeting at the _Register_ earlier in the day, about her parents’ refusal to publish her article, about their reasoning.

“Right,” Jughead agreed cautiously. “But… to be honest, Betty, I don’t really have a problem with your parents wanting to protect you. This _is_ all really controversial right now, and I can’t blame them for not wanting you in the middle of it. They’re your _parents_ ; protecting you is actually kind of their _job_.”

But Betty scoffed at his argument. “It’s ‘controversial’ because _I’m_ the only one saying it,” she contended. “If all they want to do is protect me, they could fill the entire paper with the truth… do profiles of Serpents who are just ordinary people, living their lives and taking care of their families and doing their best; lay out details on the investigations into Clifford Blossom’s drug ring and its connections in Canada; look back at the coverage of Jason’s murder and analyze what clues were missed that led to his own father almost getting away with it… There are a _million_ angles they could take, Jug, all of them true and important and newsworthy. And in covering all of that, they’d stop me being a target, because I wouldn’t be an outlier anymore.

“ _And_ the town might stop agreeing with Mayor McCoy if anyone actually gave them any new information. Not to mention,” she added passionately, “ that getting that new information out into the world might help protect some _other_ people, too… There have been _attacks_ on the South Side, Juggie. People are going after the Serpents because they _believe_ what they’ve been told. Why should my safety be bought at the price of theirs?”

It was a valid point, Jughead had to concede. Up until this moment, he’d been equal parts resistant to making his family drama into tabloid fodder, and terrified of the backlash Betty might face.

But if the _Register_ … the Sheriff… the sources people trusted to frame their small world... if they _all_ got serious about telling the whole story, Betty and her article – brilliant as it was – wouldn’t stand out at all.

“Smart women are so sexy,” he told her – an indirect acknowledgement of her point – as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and settled her body more securely against his, relishing the chance to touch her.

But at his words, something shifted in Betty’s mood, her energy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what alerted him. It wasn’t that she tensed, exactly; it was more a change the quality of her tension. Whatever the signal, the message was clear: Betty was troubled by something different now. 

“Bets?” he questioned softly. “You okay?”

“I just…” she sighed. “I had an… awkward moment with Archie after lunch,” she acknowledged.

“What, after the anticlimactic reveal of his illicit love affair with a New York heiress and sometime Pussycat?” Jughead teased, a little punchy with the relief that she wasn’t about to share more bad news.

“Juggie,” she protested, but she was laughing a little, her body melting into him as her tension relaxed.

“So what happened?” he prompted, delighted by his success… and half sure he knew what she was going to tell him.

Betty sighed again, relaxing a bit more. “Nothing, really…” she trailed off.

“Except?” Jughead prompted patiently.

“I was in the _Blue and Gold_ office during free period, and Archie came in. He said he wanted to make sure I was really okay, you know, about him and Veronica.” Jughead chuckled a bit. “Well, to be fair to him, I may have been a little less than forthcoming about my real feelings on a previous such occasion,” Betty pointed out.

“Fair enough,” Jughead conceded, although even he could still hear the amusement in his own voice. “So he asked if you were okay. You said you were. And then?”

Betty hesitated a moment before saying, “It was _weird_ , Juggie. He was telling me about how much he likes Veronica, and all of a sudden, something… changed. He gave me this… I don’t know… _look_ , and started moving closer to me. And then he said that ‘a little part of him’ always thought…” she trailed off again.

“Thought what?” Jughead asked.

“I… don’t really know,” Betty admitted sheepishly. “It felt like he was going to say something about _us_ … like, him and me and… _feelings_. So I… panicked and just started blabbering.”

“Panicked?” This time, Jughead couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to hear _that_!” Betty exclaimed. “Assuming, of course, _that’s_ even what he was going to say.

"Our friendship barely survived _my_ crush on _him_. If I had to turn him down now? Ugh! I don’t even want to _picture_ that. He’s too good a friend to lose over something so stupid.”

“So you figure Archie’s got a little thing for you now?” Jughead asked, just to confirm he was hearing her correctly. It wasn’t a surprise; he’d known Archie a long time, and dude’s body language at lunch had been about as subtle as Betty’s sledgehammer.

It _was_ a surprise, though, to realize that he felt neither jealous nor threatened by this confirmation of his own observations. It occurred to him that this was, without a doubt, the first time in his life that he’d felt one hundred per cent confident of another human being’s – any human being’s – love for him.

“No. At least, not really.” It took Jughead a moment to remember the question Betty was responding to, and he quickly gave her his full attention again. “That’s what was weird about it. Well… _part_ of the ‘weird,’ anyway,” she amended. “But, I don’t know… maybe he thinks he does, or has some FOMO or something? It totally _felt_ there was some romantic declaration coming. And he _has_ given me some super-weird looks lately,” she added. “But I honestly _don’t_ think he has real feelings for me.

“Maybe he’s afraid of committing with Veronica. Or maybe he’s traumatized from being molested by Grundy. Or maybe his abandonment issues are surfacing since his mom left.

“I don’t know, Jug,” she concluded on another sigh that morphed into a yawn. “But I think , if I can just keep him from saying anything until he gets over… whatever it is… it’ll just blow over.”

Jughead was less convinced. He’d noticed those “super-weird looks,” and he wasn’t sure Archie’s feelings – real or otherwise – would be that easy to resolve. Then again, he couldn’t comprehend why every girl-loving human in Riverdale, up to and including Sheriff Keller and Principal Weatherbee, wasn’t lining up to duel him for Betty’s affections.

And he could hear the fatigue in Betty’s voice. There was no point in debating the issue now. Her breath was already shifting to the rhythm experience had taught him meant sleep was imminent.

“It’ll be okay,” was all he said to her before he reached to snap off the lamp, and closed his own eyes.


	32. Chapter 32

### Chapter 32

Jughead was glad he had food.

Of course, he was _always_ glad to have food; a devoted eater _and_ a kid who’d grown up in a home where the next meal was rarely a certainty, he tended to appreciate food more than most of his peers did. But those considerations had little to do with his appreciation of his thoroughly mediocre lunch today. The truth was that the food was tangible and reassuringly solid, something that was grounding him in this thoroughly surreal situation.

Eating lunch _tête à tête_ with Veronica Lodge was, in itself, weird enough to put him off balance. Sure, they’d been in each other’s company often enough; their mutual friendships with Betty and Archie had brought them into one another’s orbits fairly regularly. And, despite his natural suspicion of anyone as wealthy or as confident as Veronica, he’d found her company… less irksome than he would have expected. He’d even be willing to say _cautiously_ that he liked her more than he’d have expected to. But he couldn’t recall ever sustaining a one-on-one conversation with her before this impromptu lunch in the Riverdale High cafeteria.

Then Cheryl Blossom had joined them and tipped the whole situation over the line from "mildly weird" to "full-on, Dali-eqsque surreal." Never in his wildest dreams – or, to be more accurate, his most cold-sweat-inducing nightmares – would Jughead have imagined himself alone in the cafeteria with the reigning Queen and High Priestess of Riverdale’s rich bitches. And that was _before_ Cheryl gifted him her spider broach, a piece that even his admittedly inexpert eye could see was as close to priceless as _he_ was ever going to get.

All of that faded into insignificance, though, when Kevin Keller arrived. His gasped words – “It’s Betty’s locker. Come on. It’s bad.” – were frustratingly vague, but his pallor and obvious agitation were eloquent. Jughead ran for the door.

He moved as quickly as he could, but he felt as if he were pressing his way through chest-deep water. It seemed to take hours to reach the cafeteria door, hours in which the very air seemed to thicken around him, stifling breath and movement both.

It was even worse in the hallway. The thickness of the air, the heaviness of his limbs were compounded by the crowd that had gathered, eerily silent, staring at something he couldn’t yet see.

He thought he’d never reach Betty – couldn’t even _see_ her through that forest of silent, staring people – but started pushing his way through the crowd nonetheless. It felt like more hours… _days_ … before he’d cleared enough of the crowd to see her face, her expression of devastation and bewilderment in equal measure, like a child punished harshly without understanding why. He redoubled his efforts, forcing a way through bodies and air that seemed to be conspiring to keep him from reaching her. It seemed to take longer than it should… longer than it _could_ … to finally break through the crowd, only to stop, appalled, when he finally reached his objective.

It was, indeed, Betty’s locker at the centre of all this attention, the crowd maintaining an uneasy perimeter around it as if it were about to explode.

But Jughead couldn’t actually see the locker itself. He recognized it only from his familiarity with this section of the Riverdale High corridor. The locker was invisible, completely hidden behind at thick layer of paper that he recognized as copies – _dozens_ of copies – of Betty’s article… the one about Jason Blossom’s murder, about Clifford Blossom and the South Side Serpents… about Jughead’s dad. Glistening, deep-red letters scrawled across the bizarre collage proclaimed: “Go to hell, serpent slut!” Most chilling of all, next to the message, a doll hung from a rope around its neck… a doll that bore a noticeable resemblance to a younger Betty.

The _real_ Betty – the one he’d kissed this morning before climbing out of her window - was still staring at the gruesome, angry display. Her eyes were huge in her face, her expression still both wounded and baffled and entirely heartbreaking.

Jughead moved without conscious thought, stepping directly into her line of sight, blocking her view of the vandalized locker as if that could somehow protect her. But his movement had the opposite effect to what he’d intended, galvanizing Betty to action. She took a step forwards, reaching past him, apparently trying to tear down the sheets plastered across her locker and those on either side of it.

Standing this close, Jughead could smell a metallic, almost meaty tang coming from the still-wet lettering, and it turned his stomach. Suddenly, the strangled doll was no longer the most chilling part of this nightmare scenario, because he was 90% sure from the smell that the hateful message had been scrawled on Betty’s locker in blood. He didn’t even want to _contemplate_ what type of blood it might be. He wasn’t squeamish by nature, but the idea that someone – anyone – would paint such vile sentiments on Betty’s locker was already more than enough to make him ill. The idea that they’d used blood? Even his writer’s mind failed to find words to express the horror that choked him at that thought.

But Betty was still trying to get past him, to tear it all down, pushing against him with single-minded determination.

“No, it’s nothing,” she was saying as she pushed futilely against his immovable resistance. “It’s just a jerk with a can of spray paint!”

“I don’t think that’s spray paint, okay?” he said reluctantly, and at his words, the fight went out of Betty abruptly, allowing him to enfold her in his arms and escort her away.

***

“As long as you’re with me, writing articles about my dad, trouble’s going to keep coming at you from all sides,” Jughead said, his tone defeated.

After the vandalism of Betty’s locker, Principal Weatherbee had excused her from classes for the rest of the day. He _hadn’t_ excused Jughead, but Jughead had left with Betty anyway. He didn’t often ditch classes. But given that he’d be transferring schools by the end of the week, he doubted that it mattered. More importantly, there was no way he was letting Betty wander out into the snow alone. She kept insisting she was fine, but her eyes were huge in her pale face, her movements both slower and jerkier than usual. He’d noticed, too, that she kept flexing her hands, opening and closing them as if resisting the urge to dig her nails into her palms until she drew blood.

And so it was together that they left the school. Jughead let Betty lead the way. He didn’t want to look too closely at the reasons her footsteps had led them to the town cemetery, but… here they were, walking side-by-side between the headstones as fat flakes of snow fell lazily on them like some macabre Christmas card.

“It was just one jerk,” Betty said dismissively. The fresh air seemed to have reinvigorated her, brought her back to herself.

Jughead wished it had done the same for him… wished he could get back the faith, the optimism he’d felt in Betty’s room last night, the certainty that their love could outlast the dark days that seemed to be rolling towards them like thunderclouds over an open field.

But at the moment, he was half-tempted to just lie down next to one of these headstones and pull the snow and the dirt over himself. He felt numb, apathetic… half dead already. The debacle at Betty’s locker had driven home a point he should have figured out sooner… much sooner.

He and Betty? They weren’t going to make it through this. They’d never really stood a chance.

FP had told him, not just through his lifetime example of dead ends and abandoned hopes, but in words. “ _Hell, you know what happens to people like us in Riverdale, Jug,_ ” he’d said on the night of homecoming. “ _We get chewed up._ ”

Even Fred, the person who’d done more to protect Jughead in his sixteen years of life than the rest of the world combined, knew it was true. “ _My priority is keeping you safe,_ ” he’d shouted at Archie one night not too long ago, “ _from whatever troubles seem to follow the Joneses around, wherever they go, whatever they do!_ ”

Jughead could kid himself that he was different… that his writing made him different, that his work ethic made him different, that _Betty_ made him different. But at the end of the day, he was a Jones, doomed to live again his family’s generations-long cycle of poverty and isolation on the fringes of Riverdale society. And he’d be damned if he’d drag Betty down into that quicksand with him.

“It’s _not_ just one jerk!” He was half-angry at Betty for refusing to see the truth, for not taking the initiative to distance herself from him, thus saving him the pain of being the one to do it. “It’s Mayor McCoy. It’s Sheriff Keller. It’s Weatherbee. It’s Social Services. It’s the entire… multiverse, telling me that I don’t belong here. So why don’t I just do everyone…”

“Hey. _Hey!_ ” Betty cut him off, taking his face between her hands and looking directly into his eyes. “You _belong_ here just as much as everyone else. This is your _home_. You know that… right?”

“Yeah,” Jughead said tonelessly.

But Betty wasn’t settling for half-hearted acquiescence. Her hands still on his face, she gently, but firmly, forced him to meet her gaze as she gave him a chiding look.

“Yes,” he said with more certainty, telling her what he knew she wanted to hear.

And now he was thankful for the numbness that still had him wrapped in its smothering blanket, because he was dying inside. Being numb was probably all that kept him from doubling over with the agony of it, with the grief.

He’d promised Betty… promised himself… that he’d never lie to her. And now he’d done exactly that. He knew _Betty_ believed what she was saying – that he belonged here, that this was home – but Jughead was a realist. And as a realist, he could read the writing that was on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I just want to say a massive thank you to everyone who has read and commented on this evolving story. I can't tell you how encouraged I am by all your feedback, or what a lift it gives me to hear from each of you!
> 
> Second, I know this chapter ended in a really bleak way. I kind of hate that, but the whole cemetery thing was _not_ my idea. (I'm looking at you, actual _Riverdale_ creators!) Please rest assured there are fluffier days ahead! I wanted to wait and post this when the next chapter was ready, to avoid leaving things on a down note, but writing time is scarce just now, and I don't want to leave this chapter languishing my notebook any longer. When I post again, there will be smiles, shakes and smoochies... I promise!
> 
> Best,
> 
> Blue


	33. Chapter 33

### Chapter 33

It had been surprisingly easy to accelerate his transfer to South Side High. Jughead had simply showed up in the South Side principal’s office 20 minutes before classes were supposed to begin, and handed over his social worker’s business card. A phone call to her, and one to Riverdale High, and he was officially a South Side High School student… with 10 minutes to spare before his first class.

Actually, it probably wasn’t all _that_ surprising, Jughead reflected as he sat beneath the flickering fluorescent lights of South Side’s cafeteria. Weatherbee had never done more than tolerate Jughead’s presence at Riverdale High; the trailer park lay on the boundary line between school districts, and Jughead attended Riverdale primarily as a relic of his primary school days when FP’s brief flirtation with sobriety had ushered in a period of solvency for the Jones family, and they had lived in a tiny bungalow solidly within Riverdale’s school lines. As for Social Services, they had originated the transfer plan, and had no objection to moving up the timeline.

Really, Jughead hadn’t had to do any more than step out of the way of the wheels “the system” had set in motion, and let that momentum carry him forward into this dingy, ill-lit space in an underfunded school that no one cared about.

His first morning of classes had been less than inspiring, it was true. The teachers and students seemed to have established an uneasy truce, the key condition of which was their mutual consent to ignore one another until the 3:30 bell allowed them to go home. He hadn’t _learned_ anything – no one seemed especially invested in even _trying_ to teach him anything – but he also hadn’t witnessed any actual violence… a fact which suggested the situation at South Side High had improved over the past few years.

And lunchtime, thus far, had been something of a revelation. Not the lunch itself, of course. South Side’s menu offerings were a solid step _down_ from Riverdale’s… which Jughead wouldn’t previously have believed possible. And the facilities were dirty and poorly maintained.

No, what had come as a surprise was his automatic acceptance into the social matrix of South Side. At Riverside High, Betty, Archie and Kevin – and, more recently, Veronica – had loyally joined him at lunch whenever their schedules allowed. But the rest of the student body had avoided him as through his “poor” were contagious and might contaminate them if they got too close.

By South Side standards, on the other hand, it appeared he was practically royalty. His financial situation wasn’t significantly different from anyone else’s… and FP’s status as one of the leaders of the South Side Serpents conferred a prestige that was both unexpected and… more welcome than he liked to admit.

When a group of his now-fellow students had formed around Jughead shortly after he’d found a seat, he’d automatically expected trouble. Instead, he’d found a welcome.

Admittedly, he’d had to endure a certain level of french fry theft. But apart from that, the group had been unexpectedly friendly. More than a few were Serpents who knew his dad directly; the rest considered his acceptance by the Serpents more than introduction enough to satisfy them. The very worst thing he faced was curiosity, rather than hostility. And it turned out that a lifetime spent with FP had equipped him perfectly for social success in this milieu. He knew the jokes, the tone, the comments that would win him approval from his new compatriots, understood their mores without even having to try.

It was actually rather humbling. He’d always disdained the “popular” crowd. Their conformity, their group think had never appealed to him, even when it might have smoothed his social road to approximate their norms even a bit more closely.

But today, basking in the warmth of approval, of acceptance, he could finally understand the allure. There was a glow that came with group inclusion – not luminous, transcendent like the glow of being with Betty, but compelling nonetheless. It was spark; it was crackle; it was electrically charged and he understood all at once how it could become addictive.

And then, as if his thoughts had conjured her, Betty was there.

“Jug,” she spoke behind him, and he spun, startled and inexplicably guilty. It was perhaps the first time in his life that the sight of Betty erased his smile, rather than inspiring it.

“What are you guys going here?” he asked in consternation.

***

“Is _this_ why you didn’t come over last night?” Betty asked Jughead as soon as they’d cleared the security desk and were standing in the South Side High parking lot. “You didn’t want to tell me you _just couldn’t wait_ for the end of the week… you just had to go now?”

She was trying hard to stay calm, speak politely, but she knew Jughead could see right through her to the painful churn within. She could read it in the way his glance kept sliding to her hands, checking for signs of tension, for drops of blood.

She could have told him he didn’t need to worry. She wasn’t disappearing into her own head, wasn’t suppressing her feelings, wasn’t going distant. She was fully and acutely aware that she was _furious_ with him right now, and she wasn’t afraid to tell him so.

“I didn’t _tell_ you ahead of time because I knew you would have tried to stop me,” he admitted, ignoring her question, which had been rhetorical anyway. Of _course_ that was why he’d stayed away from her last night; there was no way he could have kept a secret of that magnitude from her had they seen each other.

“Damn straight,” Betty answered firmly, “and I’m still gonna try.” But some of her fury ebbed away at his acknowledgment. At least he wasn’t trying to pretend he hadn’t been hiding this from her.

“Betty, the south side is where the powers that be _want_ me,” Jughead said patiently, as if he were stating an irrefutable and well-known truth. “And maybe I want to be here as well,” he added in something closer to his usual tone. Betty caught her breath at that, as shocked for a moment as if he’d slapped her. “I may blend in better here… and it’ll keep _you_ safe,” he concluded. Even through her own pain, Betty could see and appreciate the sincere concern in his eyes.

His caring warmed her, even as it irritated her. First, her parents had refused to publish her article in the _Register_ … to keep her safe. Now Jughead was transferring schools, uprooting himself from her life… to keep her safe. _Why_ was everyone so hell-bent on protecting her by taking away everything that meant the most to her? Yellow wallpaper indeed, she thought bitterly, remembering Jughead’s first visit to her bedroom window a few weeks – or a lifetime – ago.

But this was not a moment for confrontation. If _her_ world seemed to be spinning out of orbit, _his_ must feel like it was on the verge of implosion. And in a matter of minutes, at most, Veronica would signal to Smithers – who, it appeared, doubled as chauffeur for the ancient but immaculate black town car that had been Hermione’s in her high school days – and they’d be on their way back to Riverdale High. Betty didn’t want to waste this time fighting; she’d rather use it to show Jughead that she loved him, that she was still in his corner, even when she didn’t like or understand his choices. Even when she suspected he was purposely keeping her at a distance.

And so, she focused on her most important point… the one she wanted to say with him after she had gone.

“I’m not letting Riverdale’s civil war split us apart, Jug,” she told him absolutely, and was rewarded by seeing the haunted look leave his face for the first time since he’d caught sight of her vandalized locker. In its place was a familiar half smile that tugged at the corners of his lips, even as his gaze softened and dropped to her mouth. She could practically _hear_ him thinking about kissing her.

Unable to stand another moment without touching him, Betty stepped into him, sliding her arms around his waist and smiling into his shoulder as his arms unhesitatingly gathered her close, supporting her weight against him as he leaned on Veronica’s car while Smithers, still behind the wheel, studiously ignored them both.

“You’re staying here, aren’t you?” Betty said resignedly, still letting her weight rest against him, unwilling to give up this comfort so quickly.

“Right here on the hood of this car,” Jughead agreed, and she giggled in spite of herself.

“The Man with the Iron Ass,” she suggested, and felt a glow as he snorted with amusement and pulled her closer still, his nose pressed against her hair as he seemed to inhale her scent.

“Well played, Cooper,” he said, his voice warm. “A hit, a very palpable hit. But I’ll be making my way back to civilization in a few hours,” he added.

“You will?

“The Jubilee,” he reminded her. “I hear the music’s gonna suck, but the keynote speaker is supposed to be amazing.” She laughed again. Even a crumbling parking lot on the south side felt like a glorious place to be when Juggie held her close.

“You’re still coming?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too needy.

“Of course,” he answered, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes for a moment. “I’m changing schools, not leaving you.

“Besides,” he added before she could slip into melancholy again, “five bucks says Josie makes Archie perform in cat ears and a unitard like the rest of the Pussycats. And you know I wouldn’t want to miss that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been more than a week since I've posted (sorry!), which means I have a backlog of a few chapters. I'll try to get them up as quickly as possible. As always, I love hearing what you think, and I'm deeply thankful for all the encouragement so many of you continue to share.


	34. Chapter 34

### Chapter 34

Archie couldn’t help himself anymore. He’d kept his back studiously turned, focusing his attention on Veronica… on the South Side High students milling about in the general vicinity… on baseball statistics… on _anything_ to keep his mind and his eyes off Betty and Jughead and whatever they might be saying or doing behind him. But it was getting increasingly difficult; he felt as though a magnet were pulling his eyes back towards them, the force of its pull increasing until it was damned nigh irresistible.

Trying to look casual, he took a glance over his shoulder… and immediately wished he hadn’t. Betty was wrapped in Jughead’s arms, not passionately, but protectively, tenderly. Their posture, leaning together against the hood of Ronnie’s car, was one of total ease, complete comfort in their belonging together. He could see Betty’s face from here, and her expression spoke of such peace, such contentment, it felt like an invasion of her privacy to even glance at it.

It also felt lonely, although he chided himself immediately for even thinking it. What right did he have to be lonely, standing here with Veronica? And yet, he felt himself to be very much on the outside of the almost tangible connection between Betty and Jughead.

And then Veronica spoke, half-echoing his thoughts and drawing his eyes back to her.

“They’re each other’s soul mates,” she said softly, almost wistfully. Her gaze slid away from his for a moment, then returned as she added with what sounded like a forced return to her usual tone, “Good for them… don’t you think?” Archie froze for a moment, her question taking him straight back to the thoughts she’d interrupted. “ _Good for them_ ” was decidedly _not_ the thought uppermost in his mind when he looked at them. “ _What about me?_ ” was a lot closer, although he wasn’t about to admit that out loud.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for Jughead and Betty – not exactly, at least – but lately, he felt so alone, so rootless, he just wanted desperately to belong. Being suddenly superfluous to Juggie, the first friend of his childhood, was bad enough. But, while he’d never viewed her romantically, much less sexually, he’d never felt like he _belonged_ with anyone quite the way he did with Betty. She’d been his best friend pretty much his entire life, had stood by him in his worst moments, cooked up solutions to his problems, tried to fight his battles for him.

And while he’d never felt precisely _attracted_ to her, it was true what he’d told Betty – or tried to before she’d shut him down – in the _Blue and Gold_ office: there had always been a part of him that assumed they’d end up together. It wasn’t so much that he wanted that; what he _wanted_ was excitement… unpredictability… sex… concepts he’d never even tried to associate with Betty.

But _eventually_ , when he was ready to settle down, ready for peace and permanence… yeah. Although he hadn’t thought much about it, he’d taken for granted that it would be with her.

All of which made his present situation profoundly unsettling. He _did_ like Veronica… a lot. She was gorgeous and glamourous, funny and fearless. She was adventure and mystery and excitement, and she was sexy as hell. She was everything he wanted… for right now. But she didn’t fit the hazy “someday” of his imaginings at all; he had a vague but chilling suspicion that she was a "dressing up for dinner" and "wearing shoes in the house" kind of person. He couldn't decide which would be a worse long-term fate: being uncomfortably dressed-up for the rest of his life, or living perpetually with the knowledge that he was underdressed, even if the occasion was just watching a football game in the basement.

And it was hard to get too excited about “right now,” when just over his right shoulder, everything he wanted for his future – or at least, the only version he’d ever imagined of his future – was slipping out of reach.

The timing was downright ironic. His whole life, Betty had been _right there_ , peace and permanence in a perfect, pink and gold package, and he hadn’t been interested; he’d been looking for more sizzle, more pizzazz, just… _more_. But now, he wasn’t so sure that peace and permanence were things he wanted to wait years for. God knew there’d been little enough peace, and nothing of permanence, in Riverdale these past few months. Only _now_ , it was Veronica – the queen of sizzle herself – who was _right here_ , apparently ready to take a chance on a relationship with him. And Betty? She was suddenly unattainable in a way he never would have imagined his best friend, his other half would be.

He’d taken too long to answer Veronica’s comment, he realized, and she was looking at him quizzically.

“Archie? What is it?” she asked, her tone teasing.

“Ronnie…” he began, his voice heavy. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say to her… how to distill his loneliness and desire and panic and yearning all into words that would make sense, that she could hear and evaluate and respond to. But he knew he had to say _something_. He’d burned her once already by acting on his feelings for her, without letting her in on what he was thinking and feeling about Betty. He might not be the deepest thinker in the world, but he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. 

Before he could say any more, though, Veronica’s cell phone dinged with an incoming text. “Wait,” she said, glancing down at the screen, and then her expression changed. “Thanks for trying,” she read aloud. “I’m going to be with Jason now.” She looked up at Archie again as she processed the odd message. “Oh my God,” she said, realization dawning on her face.

“What?” Archie asked, not following her yet.

“ _Where_ would Cheryl go to be with Jason?” Veronica demanded.

“Sweetwater River,” Archie replied, the answer as obvious as it was impossible to accept.

“We have to go,” Veronica said, already pushing past him towards Betty and Jughead and the car. “Guys!” she shouted, “We have to go.”

***

It was almost a relief to have something to do, something urgent, that allowed him to take his pent up energy and frustration and confusion and translate them into physical action, rather than allowing them to chase each other around and around his mind.

The endless tramp through the snowy woods, shouting Cheryl’s name, had a nightmare quality to it. And yet, it had the advantage of simplicity, a solvable problem. Find the girl. Save the girl. Not an easy job – horrifically difficult, in fact, with stakes that were far too high – but straightforward.

It was Betty who finally spotted Cheryl, a tiny splash of red in the vast white landscape, far away – too far away – on the frozen surface of Sweetwater River. Someone shouted – he was never sure, afterward, who it had been – and then they were running, all of them, churning up the snow and slipping on the ice beneath, hearing the ominous cracking of ice too thin to bear their weight. Even the footing beneath them seemed determined to thwart their efforts to reach her.

“Just come to the shore and we’ll figure this out together, okay?” he heard Veronica shout behind him.

Cheryl had heard… maybe Veronica’s shout… maybe all of them. Slowly, she turned and faced them. She was too far away to see her expression, but she was definitely looking their way.

Then, with a crack like a gun shot, the ice beneath her gave way completely, and she vanished.

And he was running again, leaving his friends far behind him, running faster than he’d managed in the best football game of his life… trying to outrun his own desperation, his own choices, his own confusion… running as though succeeding in this one task could make everything else better, could take him back to a time before everything went so terribly awry.

He’d forgotten his friends, forgotten that he’d never really liked Cheryl, forgotten everything but the imperative to reach her… _now_!

At last, he reached the point where she’d disappeared and fell to his knees beside the ugly mouth opened in the ice, but the current had already carried her far downstream.

“Spread out!” Jughead shouted, a note of command in his voice, and everyone scattered, scraping and kicking aside the snow that obscured their view, trying to get a glimpse of Cheryl’s red tresses beneath the ice. Archie scrabbled frantically at the snow, and suddenly found what he’d been looking for.

“She’s here! She’s here!” he shouted. He could see Cheryl, floating just beneath the surface. There was no time to search for tools; she’d been underwater for too long already. He doubled a fist and punched the ice as hard as he could. The ice, so fragile only moments ago when threatening to give way beneath them, seemed suddenly impenetrable. He struck again, and again, finding a bizarre satisfaction in pounding at it, seeking a way to break through. He couldn’t feel his hand, though he could see the blood blooming on the ice, as red as Cheryl’s hair beneath it. His friends stood behind him, breathless, helpless, stunned into silence by his uncharacteristic single mindedness. The easygoing, uncomplicated Archie they knew was nowhere in sight. And still, he pounded away at the ice, grunting, then shouting as he smashed at it with all the force of the pain and confusion he’d been struggling with for days… weeks… until at last, it shattered beneath the force of his repeated blows. He reached his mangled hands into the icy water, and drew Cheryl, dripping and ice cold, up to the surface and into his arms.

Time seemed to stand still as he laid her out on the ice, listened for her breathing, and began attempting to resuscitate her. His Boy Scout days were long behind him, but the football team did an annual review of First Aid basics, and he attempted everything he knew to try. She’d been under water for so long, and it was so cold, yet he couldn’t just leave it, couldn’t fail to at least _try_ to bring her back. Vaguely, he was aware of his friends, Betty screaming for help, Veronica tearful, Jughead frozen in horror. But all his attention, all his energy was focused on the pale figure lying in front of him.

And then Cheryl gasped, gagged, river water spewing from her mouth before she took a deep, shuddering breath.

Archie couldn’t help himself. He smiled at her, warmth spreading throughout his cold body, before he gathered her into his arms and began carrying her back towards shore.The warmth was more than just his relief that she was safe… or would be, as soon as he got her indoors. It was a glow of certainty. All his confusion had disappeared when he had such a clear task in front of him. He’d chosen a course of action, pursued it, and succeeded. It was a heady feeling... a powerful feeling. And he wanted more of it.

From here on, he was done with dithering. He’d choose a course, then follow it, and that was it. Betty was someone else’s soulmate? Fine. He’d find his forever somewhere else. Veronica was both appealing and available, so it was time to start making _her_ his soulmate.

His body was still carrying Cheryl's dripping form out of the woods. But on the inside? He was running again.


	35. Chapter 35

### Chapter 35

“Another round of shakes?” Archie suggested. He seemed eager to prolong the evening, and Betty couldn’t blame him. Tonight had been magic. Pure magic.

The town Jubilee itself, which she had been dreading ever since Mayor McCoy and Principal Weatherbee had strong-armed her into speaking, had felt like a breakthrough for her. She’d known _exactly_ what they wanted her to say – the mayor, the principal, her parents. She’d known just how to please them, and everyone in the audience too, with some feel-good Rah-Rah-Riverdale. She could have done it, both easily and well.

But, knowing what they wanted and what was expected of her… she _still_ hadn’t given it to them. She’d told the truth instead. For once in her life she’d let go of her fears about what people would think, what they’d say, and had spoken her mind… said _exactly_ what she thought.

It had felt incredible. Exhilarating. Powerful. 

_And_ the world hadn’t ended. In fact, she’d seen heads nodding all around the auditorium as she spoke, had heard the thunderous applause as she’d finished. She’d been congratulated by more than a few people as she and Jughead made their way through the crowd on their way out of the school, too.

Not everyone, of course. There had been a few dark glances cast their way. And neither Mayor McCoy nor Principal Weatherbee had spoken to her at all.

Still, she’d come away from the experience feeling… powerful… capable… worthy. It was, without a doubt, the best night of her life.

And that was _before_ the hours she and Jughead had just spent at Pop's with Archie and Veronica, laughing and talking, easy in one another’s company. All the shadows, big and small, of these past months had been dispelled, at least for this golden moment in time. Jughead was his best self, wry and sardonically funny, yet warm and affectionate and engaged. There was no sign of his grim detachment, his fatalism of the past few days. 

Whatever had been behind Archie’s strange glances and awkward pauses lately seemed to have blown over, too, as she’d hoped it would. He was again the relaxed, uncomplicated, undemanding friend of her childhood, with the new dimension of a very visible fascination with Veronica. 

And Veronica seemed to have shaken off the weight that had settled over her as she tried to uncover the truth about her father’s business interests, and his ties to Riverdale. Instead, she was sharp-tongued and acerbically funny, a much-needed blast of New York electricity in the midst of Riverdale’s small tone fog.

It had been a perfect, shining evening, the hours speeding by with laughter and the comfort of long familiarity. By some alchemy, the four of them seemed to balance each other perfectly and spin out hours of pure gold that flew by too quickly.

But, much as she could appreciate Archie’s desire to prolong the evening still further, Betty had plans still for the night, and another milkshake wouldn’t help to put them into motion.

“Are you _insane_?” she asked Archie, laughing across the table at him as Veronica and even Jughead groaned and put their hands up, as if to ward off his suggestion. “My body is, like, 42 per cent milkshake already! If I attempted another one, Pop Tate would have to donate whatever was left of me to science!”

“I never thought I’d say this,” Jughead agreed, his arm comfortably slung around Betty’s shoulders, “but even _I_ have hit the point where another milkshake would be unwise… possibly even excessive.”

“If _Jughead Jones_ has exceeded his milkshake threshold, Archiekins,” Veronica added, “then there are two obvious conclusions to be drawn. First, I too have reached my limit for lactose-based joy. And second, we should all stay alert in the parking lot. I can only assume there are some apocalyptic horsemen at large.”

“I just don’t want this night to end,” Archie admitted.

“Well then, Mr. Andrews, how about you walk me home?” Veronica purred. She and Betty exchanged a quick glance, pregnant with meaning, along with goodnight hugs. Betty embraced Archie, too, giving him a peck on the cheek before he strolled out of the diner, his arm loosely around Veronica’s waist.

Betty and Jughead sat in companionable silence for a few moments more, appreciating the sudden quiet and basking in this unaccustomed sense of well-being.

At last, Jughead stretched. “I don’t especially want the night to end either,” he confessed, “but I suppose I should get you home, too, before Mama Cooper sends out a search party and finds me a cozy cell next to my dad.”

“Good night, Pop,” Betty called, and received a smiling nod in reply as she and Jughead walked out of the Chock-Lit shop, hand in hand.

The air was cold, but brilliantly clear, the stars looking almost close enough to touch. Jughead started walking, but Betty hesitated, tugging his hand to draw him back to her side. It was now or never.

“Jug,” she said, and then stopped. Why was this so difficult to say? Jughead was looking at her inquiringly, but patiently, and she felt a renewed rush of affection for him, somehow reminding her of the power, the agency she’d felt when she spoke out at the Jubilee. She took a deep breath.

“I told my mom… that I’d be staying over at Veronica’s tonight,” she told him. “So no one’s… like… expecting me at home.”

She held her breath, as Jughead froze for a moment, his eyes searching hers intently. Silently, she begged him to understand her unspoken message, not to make her say it aloud. Taking the whole town to task was one thing, but there was only so far Alice Cooper’s carefully reared daughter could go in propositioning a man, no matter _how_ in love with him she happened to be.

Whatever Jughead read in her eyes seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded once, decisively, before speaking.

“Well then,” he said, his gaze still so intense, “it looks like the night’s not over yet.”


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Up to this point, this fic has fallen squarely into the "Teen" rating category. The following chapter may be tiptoeing onto the borderline of "Mature." If that's not your thing, please consider yourself warned.
> 
> It has also tiptoed _out_ of my comfort zone a bit. Given this is my first fic, I don't have a lot of experience writing more (ahem) heated scenes. I'd really value your feedback (even more than I always do!) on this first foray into semi-mature themes. :)

### Chapter 36

Jughead unlocked the door to FP’s trailer and held it open for Betty, who stepped through the doorway ahead of him.

“Wow,” she said softly, glancing around the darkened living room. “It looks great in here.”

“I cleaned it up,” Jughead confessed, his mouth still slightly dry, as it had been since Betty’s startling announcement in the parking lot at Pop’s. “ _No one’s expecting me at home._ ” He didn’t want to reach too much into it, didn’t want to make assumptions or pressure Betty in any way.

But she _had_ gone out of her way – had planned ahead – to spend the night with him… somewhere that her parents _weren’t_ just across the hall.

“After Sheriff Keller thrashed it,” he added, realizing he’d left his sentence hanging, “just in case my dad…” He trailed off again. Coherent sentences seemed a bit beyond him at the moment. He turned to toss aside his beanie and his keys, playing for time as he struggled against embarrassment at his absurd hopes… as if FP would be home anytime soon.

But as always, Betty knew just what to say to reassure him. “Until he gets out… I’m not giving up on him, Jug.”

“Hell no,” he answered. For once, he knew exactly what to say too. He meant to speak with certainty, but his voice came out barely more than a whisper. “That… is why I love you, Betty.”

He’d said those words to her before, _often_ , and meant them every time. Yet somehow, here in the trailer that he’d cleaned so carefully, that he’d hoped to make a home, they seemed to take on new meaning, to hang in the air with all the resonance of a vow.

Betty heard it, felt it, too. He could tell by her sudden stillness, by the hesitation before she turned slowly to face him, by the recognition he saw in her tear-filled eyes.

“I love you, Betty Cooper,” he repeated, and felt his heart swelling with the intensity and the immensity of his love.

“Jughead Jones,” Betty answered him, her gaze never wavering from his face, “I love you.” Her words, too, carried that peculiar, almost sacred, weight, and he felt himself claimed, ransomed by her love.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her with aching tenderness, trying to pour into that kiss all the sweetness and the hope and the promise he was feeling in this moment, and he could taste the same emotions in her response. Her lips clung to his, her arms stealing around his neck as her fingers threaded themselves through the hairs at the nape of his neck, sifting gently through the strands until he thought he might die from the sweetness of it.

He could happily have stayed there, kissing Betty exactly like this, for the rest of his life… and any afterlife that might be coming his way, too. He could never tire of this; it felt almost impossibly good, and he kept his eyes closed, the better to focus on the feel of Betty, the taste of her, the soft, breathy sounds she was making as their kiss deepened, lengthened.

But it appeared Betty had other plans. So subtly he couldn’t have quite described or defined it, she shifted the tone, the flavour of their kiss. Somehow, heat began to infuse the sweetness, and then to overtake it, and from that ignition point everything turned to flame, heat, hunger that threatened to consume them both. Her fingers remained in his hair, but insistent now, demanding, dragging his head down to hers as she sucked and bit at this lips and licked her way into his mouth. She was clinging to him, pressing herself closer, as if he couldn’t possibly get close enough to satisfy her… but he was damned well going to try anyway. His hesitation earlier was evaporating fast, Betty’s actions leaving him in no doubt as to what she wanted: More. Of him. Now. Which was more than okay with him.

Without breaking their kiss, Jughead slid his hands from Betty’s waist downwards, over the impossibly perfect curve of her hips to grasp her just beneath her buttocks and lift her, tugging her weight in closer to his body and holding her tight.

She laughed, a startled huff of breath, as her feet left the floor, but she didn’t protest.

In fact, she wrapped her legs around Jughead’s waist, locking her ankles behind his hips to help anchor her. Which, he was reasonably certain, was the exact _opposite_ of a protest.

He laughed too, triumphantly, as the change of position pressed him deeper into the warm cradle of her body… yesssssss… He could barely think, barely breathe, but a few steps brought him back towards the door, where he could press Betty against the wall as he finally broke their kiss and buried his face instead in the soft juncture of her neck and shoulder. She overwhelmed his senses, nearly stopping his heart. Her skin was like warm silk beneath his lips, silk that smelled of peaches and vanilla and sunshine and… Betty, silk that tasted like the rest of his life. Her breath fanned his ear, raising hairs on the back of his neck. Ragged, with a slight sigh to it, her breathing was the sweetest music he’d ever heard, and for a moment, he thought he might weep.

Gently, worshipfully, he rained kisses across her neck, deliberately slowing himself even as he used the pressure of his body to anchor her to the wall. Then a single kiss, hot and wet, followed by a tiny bite, just below her ear, and Betty mewled her approval, unleashing a torrent of answering sensations and urges within Jughead. His blood was roaring in his ears, thundering through his veins, and yet over and under and through it all, he remained attuned to the tiny, helpless, impossibly sexy sounds Betty was making deep in her throat… to the way her hips were moving against his… to the way she was touching him, running her hands possessively, almost fiercely, over every part of him she could reach.

It was glorious.

It was perfection.

It was everything he wanted in the world, and yet it was not nearly enough.

But, whatever laws of physics and physicality might apply in movies, or in the bodice-rippers his mom used to stockpile in the living room as her personal antidote to reality, were decidedly not in force tonight. Whatever the heroes of film and literature might be able to do, _he_ couldn't keep this up much longer. His legs were beginning to tremble with the sustained effort of holding both Betty’s weight and his own, even with the support of the wall.

And yet, he couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t get enough of touching her, couldn’t bear the thought of backing away or slowing down, even to move to the bed… or the couch… or the floor. He loved the sensation of Betty’s legs around his waist, loved exploring her body from this angle, so familiar from their many nights together, yet so wonderfully new and different in this position.

Raising his head briefly to catch his breath, Jughead’s eyes fell on FP’s tiny kitchen… and its counter. Its _glorious_ counter, a blessedly horizontal surface at exactly the right height. This time, when he cupped his hands beneath Betty’s rear to take her weight, they slipped beneath the hem of her skirt and he nearly lost control as his fingers slid, not over rough wool, but over the fine cotton of her panties and the satin of her skin below. He couldn’t suppress the low moan that escaped him at the contact, nor his deeper moan as Betty gasped out his name and rubbed herself against him as best should could without the leverage of the wall.

“Juggie,” she breathed again. “Don’t stop… please?”

“Never,” he answered breathlessly as he carried her into the kitchen, set her on the counter, maintaining their position but relinquishing her weight, and swooped in to claim her mouth with his own once again.

She met his kisses eagerly, swallowing his moans and stroking him with her tongue and driving him into a fever of pleasure and desire that he’d never even imagined possible. As he held her close, relishing the freedom of movement now that he was no longer supporting her, his fingers slid under the waistband of her pink blouse and he paused, feathering them gently across the soft skin her found there until he was dizzy with the need to touch more of her… all of her.

And yet, even on the rising tide of his passion, Jughead cautioned himself not to push too far, not to take too much, not to assume what was or wasn’t okay with Betty. He tried to pull back, slow himself down, give Betty a chance to call a halt or set a boundary.

But, if Betty noticed his attempt at restraint, she was having none of it. When he paused, shifting his weight away from her to give her space…

… she used that space to grasp the bottom of her blouse, pulling it up and over her head in a single, smooth movement that somehow ended with the blouse disappearing, unlamented, into an unseen corner of the room. And there was Betty, in only her bra and skirt, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing, as her full breasts rose and fell rapidly in time with the deep breaths that were shuddering through her.

Jughead froze for a moment, dumbfounded by her beauty in that moment.

But before he could get his fill of looking at her, before he’d done more than even _begin_ to appreciate her transcendent loveliness, even perched on a cluttered kitchen counter in FP’s dingy trailer, Betty’s hands were reaching for him, eager to divest him of his sweater just as smoothly as she’d vanished her own top. And then they were bare-chested together, and all rational thought fled. There were no more words, no coherent thoughts. There was only the miracle of Betty’s skin… _all_ that skin, gliding across his; her full breasts pressing against his chest as she drew him back into her arms. Her legs were wrapped around him again, but with his sweater gone, he was acutely aware that she wore no stockings… that the softness gliding across the bare skin at his waist was her inner thighs, and the sensation sent electric shocks deep within him.

The feeling of all that skin, that contact, that friction was so far _beyond_ amazing, so thoroughly mind-blowing, he thought he might actually die. And he knew, absolutely, that it would be 100 per cent worth it.

But he really, _really_ hoped he wouldn’t die just yet.

Stepping in once again, he gathered Betty closer in his arms, forcing himself to slow down his kiss, make it languorous. They had the whole night ahead of them and, while he wasn’t going to waste a second of it, he had no intention of rushing it either. No matter how many nights together their future held, they could only have _one_ first time to make love to one another. And it was looking increasingly as though Betty had decided this was going to be that night… an idea his body, mind and heart endorsed enthusiastically.

He’d lost none of his sense of urgency, but his compulsion to linger, to savour, to make this moment last was even more urgent. He kissed Betty deeply, lingering to taste and probe and explore her mouth with his… 

He skimmed his palms lightly over all that creamy, exposed skin, taking time to appreciate the subtle differences in texture as he moved from waist to rib cage, from collar bone to shoulder blade.

At first, Betty resisted his shift in pace, trying to urge him to move faster. But as he caught her lower lip between his teeth while tracing slow, intimate arcs just beneath her breasts, he felt her shift to match him, yielding to this languid pace, stealing his breath with her own slow caresses.

It was heaven.

It was bliss.

It was…

Not to be. A pounding on the trailer down startled them both, and they broke apart, gasping, as Betty instinctively tried to cover herself, even though they were still alone in the room.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed.

“Is that your _mom_?” Jughead asked, cringing beside her and staring over his shoulder at the door as if it might bite him.

“Who else would it be?” Betty answered, sounding half angry, half resigned.

Together, they scrambled wildly to find their discarded clothing, to turn it right side out and pull it on… a process that was both slower and _far_ less enjoyable than removing it had been. At last, they were decently clothed, although Betty’s swollen lips and still-flushed cheeks were harder to conceal… and left little doubt as to the nature of the moment that had just been interrupted.

Hand in hand, they crept towards the door, still eyeing it warily.

“I’ll open it,” Jughead whispered. “You stay out of sight. She may suspect you’re here, but she can’t know for sure… right?”

Betty looked like she was about to argue, but reconsidered. She pressed herself against the wall where he door, once opened, would hide her from view of anyone standing outside.

Bracing himself for an Alice onslaught, Jughead opened the door, fully expecting to find her halfway inside already, ready to steamroll him in her attempt to get into the trailer and find her daughter. He expected to have his hands full, trying to keep her out. But he was highly motivated, anxious both to protect Betty, and to send Alice on her way so they could return to the moment she had so callously interrupted.

As the door swung open, though, Jughead paused as his mind went blank.

Instead of Alice, crowding the door, he found himself staring at what appeared to be at least half of the South Side Serpents, all gathered at the foot of the stairs, giving him space, but undeniably present. A dog barked, and a boy he vaguely recognized from the cafeteria at his new school soothed him.

“Easy, Hot Dog. He’s family,” the half-familiar stranger said, and Jughead felt an odd warmth at the words. When had he last been claimed as family, by anyone?

“Hey,” he said, his eyes scanning the crowd, trying to understand what was happening here.

“Heard your dad could have named names, but didn’t,” a bearded man in a leather jacket told him in a gravelly voice that sounded vaguely familiar. A friend of FP's obviously. “Serpents take care of their own.

“We wanted you to know, no matter what happens to him, however long he’s gone… we got your back.” The man paused, then held out a black leather jacket, the back emblazoned with a very familiar crest. “This is yours… if you want it,” he said.

Slowly, as if moving through a dream, Jughead reached out and took the jacket from the not-quite-stranger’s outstretched hand. It was heavy in his hands, solid, tangible. A single day at South Side High had taught him that the Serpents’ logo, so taboo in the world his friends inhabited, conferred status, protection, belonging in this new environment.

These were men who knew his father… respected him… maybe even admired him. “ _He’s family_ ,” one had said.

It had been months… longer… since Jughead had really had a family to claim, had people who would stand behind him without question, for as long as it took. Betty, of course, was stalwart… an unfailing friend since long before they’d fallen in love. 

But Betty was one girl, who lived under the thumb of a domineering mother. She’d stand by him, without question. But she couldn’t really protect him. She could barely protect herself in the snake pit of her family.

It was more than just the protection, though. Family was a seductive idea. He’d been a loner, an outsider, a barely tolerated clinger on fringes for most of his life. No one had cared to claim him, surround him. Certainly no one had conferred status on him, spoken of his father as someone to be relied upon. This jacket was a passport to a kind of life, a kind of community, that he’d never imagined would be within his grasp.

It was barely even a decision. The thoughts were never fully formed. It was all feelings, gut instincts, lighting flashes of connection. And it took no more than a heartbeat for it all to take place.

With a smile, making brief eye contact with as many members of the Serpents’ delegation as he could, Jughead slipped his arms into the sleeves of the jacket. It felt… solid. Warm. Permanent. Without his beanie, with this jacket instead, Jughead felt like someone else… someone better, more powerful.

It felt good.

Until Betty’s voice recalled him to her presence.

“Juggie,” she said softly, and he turned, startled to realize he’d forgotten she was there.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, and most importantly, I just want to say a HUGE thank you to all of you who are reading this fic, and especially to the wonderful folks who have left encouraging comments and kudos. I'm truly blown away by the amount of support I've found here in our little Riverdale fandom! Hearing from you is as much fun as writing the fic itself.
> 
> Second, those of you keeping score at home will have noticed that I have run out of Season 1 to build more story around. But I'm pretty invested at this point in this version of Betty and Jughead and the crew, and I can't imagine just... _leaving_ them here for the three months or so until Season 2 arrives to give meaning to my life. And I definitely have my own views on what happens next. So, the story is going to continue from this point... but unless I have previously undetected psychic powers, it's not going to be canon compliant at all when the show returns.
> 
> This is a bit of an experiment, but I'm hoping to write this story to the conclusion that is floating around in my mind before Season 2, so that this world is tied up to my own satisfaction (and hopefully yours). I'm slightly nervous, but also very excited, about going off script for the rest of this story. As always, I'll love to hear feedback on what works... or doesn't... in the next phase.
> 
> Best,
> 
> Blue

### Chapter 37

Jughead’s conversation with the Serpents didn’t take long. They offered him a jacket; he accepted. They asked if he needed anything; he said he was good. They noticed he had company and, with less winking and nudging than might have been expected, they melted away into the night.

Leaving him to go back inside… and face Betty.

Loitering alone on the stairs in front of the trailer, trying to delay the inevitable, Jughead couldn’t explain his own reluctance. Never, in all the years of their friendship -– not even when he was a girl-hating four-year-old, resentful of the time Archie spent with his next-door neighbour -– never in all the weeks of their newer, more intimate relationship –- not even in the aftermath of his fiasco of a birthday party –- _never_ had he dreaded seeing Betty, or tried to postpone it. From their earliest acquaintance, moments with Betty had been like sunshine in his life, and he’d always looked forward to their time together.

So why did looking her in the eye seem like such an impossible challenge right now?

He couldn’t explain it. But he _did_ know that lurking here, alone in the dark, was doing nothing to overcome his aversion… or to increase his self-respect, for that matter.

Squaring his shoulders -– and relishing the weight of his new, leather jacket as he did so -– Jughead stepped back inside the trailer.

Betty was in the living room, curled up on FP’s tattered couch. She looked up and smiled tentatively at Jughead as he entered, but she didn’t rise. Instead, she remained curled up in the corner of the couch, hugging herself as if she were cold.

He wasn’t sure what to say. The Serpents’ interruption, while brief, had effectively shattered the mood, broken the spell that had been woven around the two of them since they’d arrived here. Betty was mere feet from him, yet somehow, she seemed impossibly far away, and he had no idea what to say to bridge the gap, to bring her back within his reach.

The silence stretched, on the verge of becoming awkward.

“Well… at least my mom’s not here,” Betty said at last, and Jughead barked a short laugh, relieved to feel some of the tension dissipate.

“No,” he agreed. “Although, the night is young; she could still put in an appearance,” he added with a smile, and Betty shuddered theatrically.

“Perish the thought,” she smiled, and Jughead drew a deep breath as he stepped closer to her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, searching her face for some clue as to what she was thinking, feeling.

She smiled again, but weakly this time. “I don’t know, Juggie,”she answered, and he could hear… could almost _touch_ her honesty. Silence fell again, but before it could become heavy, Betty continued. “I see you’ve got a new jacket.” Her tone was neutral… so much so that Jughead knew she was making a deliberate effort to keep it so, to resist whatever judgment or anger or elation she might be feeling, and he felt a brief, irrational spurt of irritation.

“Is that a problem?” he challenged her, then inwardly berated himself as she flinched away from his tone. She was tough, though, his Betty, and she didn’t back down or run away.

“I don’t know,” she said again, and again he knew she was speaking only the truth.

“But you disapprove,” he accused. What was _wrong_ with him tonight? He hated the way he was speaking to Betty, and yet he seemed powerless to stop it.

Still, Betty didn’t flare up at him. Nor did she back down.

“I don’t,” she answered simply. “I don’t _know_ enough about the Serpents to disapprove _or_ to approve.

“And neither do you, Jug, which is why I’m _concerned_. Less than three months ago, you were too ashamed to tell me your father was a South Side Serpent. And now you’re one yourself, with no new information? No idea what they stand for, or what joining them might mean?

“You’ve never been a ‘joiner,’ Jug. You’ve always made your own path… even when jumping on the bandwagon or joining the club might have been easier. That’s just who you are.

“And now, suddenly, you’ve joined a gang, committed yourself, put on a jacket so that everyone who sees you will identify you with them… without even asking any questions or taking any time to reflect? I don’t get it.

“I don’t ' _disapprove_ ,'” she made air quotes with her fingers around the word. “I can’t judge whether the Serpents are good or bad or whether they just… are. But I don’t _understand_ you committing yourself like this, with no more information than I have. And that feels… weird. I thought I knew you pretty well, understood what was important to you, and now…” her voice trailed off on a questioning note.

“You _do_ know me,” Jughead insisted, his irritation gone. “You probably know me better than anyone ever has, Betty. I haven’t suddenly changed just because I put on a jacket.” He sat beside her on the couch, putting his arm tentatively around her shoulders, relieved when she didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she snuggled closer to him, as if she were chilled and trying to get warm.

“It’s more than putting on a jacket, Jug, and you know it,” Betty answered in something closer to her normal voice. “It’s… putting on an identity. When you wear that jacket, people won’t see Jughead Jones, rugged individualist anymore… at least, not at first. They’ll just see a South Side Serpent.”

“Yeah, that’s a loss,” Jughead answered sarcastically, “since Jughead Jones makes such a _great_ first impression.”

“To me he does,” Betty said softly. “To me, that’s the only identity that matters.

“And,” she added more prosaically, “being a South Side Serpent isn’t without its own complexities, especially these days.”

“On the south side, it has its advantages,” Jughead countered, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“Which goes to show just how far apart we’re going to be once you move in with the foster Fosters,” Betty answered. She was clearly striving to keep the tone light as she joked about the Fosters, but Jughead could hear the underlying sadness in her voice, and it tore him up. He desperately didn’t want her to be sad for _any_ reason… least of all one to do with him. And he couldn’t disagree with her basic point: he’d just, essentially, joined a gang, with only the very haziest of ideas of what that might entail.

And yet, he loved the weight of this jacket on his shoulders, loved knowing that wherever he went, people would know he was a part of something, loved that his father’s friends had come looking for him… _him_ … not as an act of charity, like the Fosters, or an obligation, like Fred Andrews, but because they respected his dad… and because they wanted him.

But he didn’t know how to say any of that to Betty, and was afraid he might sound pathetic trying. And he wasn’t sure saying it would make much difference anyway.

Which left him with some pretty fundamental questions about the rest of this night. He'd thought he knew where the evening was going, but with one knock at the door, he seemed to have hit a detour.

His arm was still around Betty, her head resting on his leather-clad shoulder, but she’d never seemed further away.

“Do you,” he cleared his throat and began again. “Do you want me to take you home?” he asked, and felt Betty stiffen beside him.

“You want me to go?” she asked, her voice sounding small and lost for the first time since they’d started this conversation.

“No!” he exclaimed, mentally kicking himself for doing this badly. “I just… I thought maybe _you_ didn’t want to stay.”

Betty took her head off his shoulder and sat back, angling her body on the couch so she could look him in the eye as she shot him a look of disbelief. “I lied to my mother and colluded with Veronica to get here, Jughead. And then I walked inside and started taking my clothes off. And now, it seems reasonable to you that I’d just… give up and go home because you put a jacket on?”

He had to laugh, even as he protested. “ _You’re_ the one who pointed out that it’s about a lot more than me putting on a jacket, Cooper.”

“Yeah, it is,” Betty agreed. “But _we’re_ about more than just convenience or… or… consensus, too. I love you, Jughead. That’s not going to change just because I don’t like or understand one of your choices.

“The Serpent thing is weird, but… honestly? What _isn’t_ weird right now? We’ll figure it out.

“Meanwhile, I still want to be here tonight. I still want to be…” she trailed off, then took a deep breath, seeming to gather her courage, before looking him in the eyes again, “ _with_ you. I came over here with a plan, Juggie, and… I still want to… you know. Finish what we started. I’m _ready_.”

“But I think maybe I’m not,” Jughead answered, even as a part of his own mind stood aside, screaming at him to shut up, unable to believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. “Ready, that is,” he added.

Betty flushed hotly, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. “Oh, I thought…” she stammered, her mortification painfully apparently. “But, if you… don’t want to…”

Jughead took her face between his hands, gently but inexorably forcing her to meet his gaze.

“ _Don’t want to_ is not the issue,” he told her. “Betty, I could be three days dead and _still_ want you… desperately.”

“Then, why…” she began, confusion evident on her lovely face.

“Because I’m insanely in love with you, and I don’t want the first time we’re together… _that way_ … to taste like disappointment and distance!” he answered too loudly, almost angrily. “I’m in this for the long haul, Betty,” he added more moderately. “Which means there are going to be nights -– lots of them, I hope –- when things _aren’t_ … weird between us the way they are right now. And I want our first time to be on one of _those_ nights… a night that feels the way things felt in here an hour ago. Not the way they feel right now.”

He couldn’t be sure – the light was dim in the trailer’s living room – but he thought he saw tears in Betty’s eyes in the instant before she leaned in to kiss him. And while the kiss wasn’t the glorious explosion of passion they’d shared earlier, it didn’t feel like disappointment either. It tasted like acceptance. Acceptance and… Betty. Which was a hell of a lot more than he’d hoped for a few minutes ago.”

“Have it your way, Jughead Jones,” Betty said with mock reluctance as she ended their kiss. “We’ll slow things down… for tonight. But I’m warning you: sooner or later, you’re going to have to start putting out!”

And a little more of the distance between them evaporated, as they laughed together there on FP’s tired old couch.


	38. Chapter 38

### Chapter 38

The sun was already up when Betty awoke, and though the tiny bedroom of FP’s trailer was relatively unfamiliar, the comfort of Jughead’s arms around her, the ease with which their bodies fitted together, made her feel right at home. She could hear from Jughead’s breathing that he, too, was already awake but, like her, he seemed to be savouring the stillness… and the knowledge that her mother wasn’t about to burst in on them at any moment. Which was just as well, really; FP’s bed didn’t even have a dust ruffle.

Although, Betty reflected, even rushed mornings with a constant threat of discovery were preferable to mornings _alone_ , which would doubtless become her new normal once Jughead moved in with the Fosters.

Resolutely, she pushed such thoughts away. This moment, right now, was theirs. No point ruining it with worries about the future… or about the recent past, for that matter. Although she and Jughead hadn’t managed to recapture the magic of the early evening, they _had_ moved past the awkwardness occasioned by the Serpents’ visit. It had been good to reconnect, good to review the evening together, good to talk in increasingly sleepy whispers in FP’s bed until at last they slept, tangled together so closely, they seemed to be sharing the same breath.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jughead said softly, clearly just as aware of her wakefulness as she had been of his.

“Me too,” Betty agreed, nestling even closer. “ _And_ I’m glad my mom _isn’t_ ,” she added.

Jughead laughed. “I’ll admit, the same thought _had_ crossed my mind, Cooper,” he said. His voice was still gravelly with sleep, and the sound of it vibrated pleasantly against the base of Betty’s skull, sending little shivers along her spine. “Although, the sun _is_ up,” he added. “How long do we have before she sends out a search party?”

Betty smiled against his chest. “Veronica solemnly promised me not to leave her apartment before noon, and to answer any and all parental calls with news that I was still asleep, in the shower, and, as a last resort, suffering from extreme digestive distress.” Jughead snorted with amusement.

“Don’t laugh,” Betty told him, trying -- and failing -- to sound serious. “After trying to keep pace with you and Archie at Pop’s last night, that’s a not-implausible scenario! Milkshakes were not _meant_ to be consumed in plurals.”

“Rank heresy,” Jughead said mildly, then returned to the substance of her answer. “Noon, though? Really?” He sounded absolutely delighted. “That gives us…” he glanced at the drug store alarm clock on the chipped melamine of FP’s dresser, “a good four-and-a-half hours of Alice-free relaxation.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Betty agreed. His raspy morning voice was still giving her shivery feelings that were extending their reach the longer she and Jughead lay here. She shifted her weight slightly, hitching her leg up to rest across Jughead’s hips, drawing her more intimately against him and drawing her attention to his gathering tumescence. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one enjoying a parent-free morning cuddle.

“Whatever will we do to fill all that time?” she asked, astonished at her own boldness... at the coyness in her own tone. Clearly, friendship with Veronica Lodge had given her an unexpected, but very welcome, education.

“Community service?” Jughead suggested. His obvious attempt at his characteristic, sardonic tone was undercut somewhat by his breathlessness, and by the tiny groan that preceded his next suggestions as Betty brushed her thigh across him again. “A crossword? Maybe a game of Risk?”

“Risk, definitely,” Betty agreed with mock seriousness. “I _definitely_ feel compelled to conquer something.”

“Can I just surrender right now?” Jughead gasped, no longer even trying to sound detached. At this point, framing words at all seemed to be an uphill battle for him.

Betty kissed him in reply, even as she dragged her thigh across his hips again, deliberately slowly, relishing the response she could feel in his body. An unaccustomed feeling of sensual power was flowing through her. He wanted her. She _knew_ he did; he’d said so, in so many words, the night before.

And last night’s awkward distance between them had evaporated as completely as if it had never been. This sun-soaked morning, this leisurely pace, felt… perfect. Magical, even. Exactly what he’d wanted to wait for.

And so, still marveling at her own boldness, she shifted her weight onto the leg that was thrown across Jughead’s hips, bringing her astride him without ever breaking their kiss.

Jughead moaned deep in his throat, and Betty relished the sound, pressing herself more firmly against the heat and hardness that were so much in evidence in this position, even as she deepened their kiss, angling her head for greater access to his mouth.

She hardly recognized herself amidst the torrent of sensation that was rushing through her, the heady sense of her own power, his response to her. Rational thought had long since fled, leaving nothing but sensation… nothing but touch… but heat… but power and passion and…

Stewie Griffin’s recorded voice, saying “Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom.”

“What the…” Jughead pulled back in confusion, but Betty had already slid off him to hunt for her phone.

“It’s Archie,” Betty explained, checking the top of FP's dresser, of his nightstand. “That’s his ringtone.”

“He calls you ‘ _Mom_?’” Jughead asked incredulously, sounding part amused, part horrified as he let his head drop back against the pillow, clearly disappointed at the interruption.

“No,” Betty snorted, finally locating her phone on the floor, under FP’s nightstand, and dropping to her knees to reach for it. “But he usually texts me. If he _calls _, I can pretty much guarantee that he’s fallen and he can’t get up. AND that he’ll _keep_ calling until I answer.”__

____

Jughead rolled his eyes, but he was snickering. “Another moment, interrupted,” he observed with a quirk in the side of his mouth, but he fell silent as Betty swiped the screen to answer the call.

____

“Arch?” she asked, her eyes on Jughead as she tried to calculate how quickly she could wrap up whatever Archie wanted and return to the bed. “What’s up?”

____


	39. Chapter 39

### Chapter 39

It had been foolhardy of him to tell Betty, last night, that he wanted to wait, Jughead realized as she scrambled off the bed while Stewie Griffin’s voice continued to demand attention. It had felt right at the moment. It had felt even _more_ right this morning when he’d been bathed in sunlight and Betty’s touch and he’d thought that _this_ was going to be their time… exactly as he would have wanted it.

But, given their track record of interrupted moments… connections broken by the intrusion of outsiders, or by the eccentric twists of Betty’s own mind that pulled her attention away unexpectedly… he’d clearly made a grievous error in judgment, one that the Boy Wonder was callously, albeit unknowingly, exploiting.

Even so, Jughead couldn’t stop grinning… couldn’t resist teasing Betty about Archie’s ridiculous ring tone… couldn’t doubt that he and Betty would recapture their moment in the hours they had yet to spend together… alone.

“Arch? What’s up?” Betty asked, cutting off his joking as she took the call. As she listened to whatever Archie was saying on the other end of the line, she paled visibly, her smile fading along with the colour from her cheeks. “WHAT?” She paused, listening again. “Oh my God… Oh my GOD, Arch! Is he okay? Are _you_ okay? Are you… yeah. Yes, of course. We’ll be right there.” She ended the call, and raised a stricken face to Jughead.

“What is it?” he asked her, his heart in his throat, knowing… just _knowing_ the answer wasn’t going to be good.

“Fred Andrews has been shot,” Betty said baldly.

Time seemed to shift into slow motion as Jughead struggled to make sense of her words. He understood each word individually, of course. But somehow, his brain refused to accept them when placed all together in that particular order… refused to glean any meaning from their combination.

He blinked.

Rubbed his left eyebrow with the heel of his hand.

Blinked again.

_He_ was slowing down, but Betty appeared to be speeding up. She’d already found the backpack she’d brought with her last night, stuffed in her outfit from the Jubilee, and was almost finished dressing in jeans and a crewneck sweater she must have brought with her last night.

“Jug,” her voice focused his attention more fully on her. “We have to go. I told Archie we’d meet him at the hospital.”

He nodded once, slowly, stupidly, but didn’t move.

“Jughead?” Betty sounded concerned now. She sat on the edge of the bed, cupping one hand against his jaw, and he leaned into her touch, reassuringly warm and… real. “Are you okay?”

“Fred,” Jughead said, uncertainly. Neither his brain nor his tongue was cooperating with his wishes at the moment.

“Yeah,” Betty confirmed sadly, as if he had fully articulated his thought. “Fred’s hurt. Badly. We don’t know yet _how_ badly. Archie was riding with him in the ambulance, but they haven’t even seen a doctor yet. The paramedics were just, um,” she cleared her throat, “trying to… stabilize him.”

“Fred’s… been shot,” Jughead said, but pronouncing the words did nothing to help his brain accept or comprehend them.

“Yeah,” said Betty again, gently. “And we need to go.”

Jughead nodded again and got out of bed. In later years, he could never remember how he found his clothes, got dressed. In memory, it always seemed as though he stood up from the bed, and found himself on the steps outside FP’s trailer, using his dad’s keys to lock up.

The cold air snapped some of his sense of unreality, and he immediately wished it hadn’t. Disorientating as his slow motion world had been… it had been far less painful than a reality in which Fred Andrews could be shot.

“Who, uh… shot Fred?” he asked Betty, but she shrugged helplessly.

“Archie didn’t say. I’m not sure he even knows,” she said, her voice tense. “They were having breakfast at Pop’s, and someone shot Fred. That’s really all I know right now. Archie sounded… confused,” she added. “Understandably. Give me FP’s keys.”

“What?” Jughead asked, wondering if his brain freeze was returning.

But Betty held out her hand as she repeated, “The _keys_ , Jug.” 

Jughead pulled them out of his pocket and handed them to her, but not without asking, “Why?”

“Because I’m about to steal your dad’s truck,” she answered matter-of-factly, “and I’d rather not take the time to hotwire it right now.”

“Betty,” Jughead said, putting a hand at her elbow to slow her down as she strode towards FP’s battered, old pickup, “you don’t have a license. You’re not even _sixteen_ yet.”

“Oh my God! I’m _not_?” Betty gasped in mock surprise. “I _know_ that, Juggie,” she added in her normal voice. “But I do know how to drive. And I’m _not_ about to spend the next hour walking to the hospital when we can be there by car in less than ten minutes.”

“A taxi…” Jughead began.

“Will cost cash neither one of us has,” Betty finished for him, “even if either Larry or Bill is available this morning… _and_ if they’ll come to the south side… _and_ if they don’t gossip to my parents about picking me up here.”

“Then _I’ll_ drive,” he persisted stubbornly. “I don’t want you getting in any trouble.”

“ _You_ don’t have a license either, Jug,” Betty pointed out. “What you _do_ have is a dad who’s in jail. And if one of us is going to caught driving without a license, I’m thinking it’s better it be the one who’s not in a position to find out whether the county jail offers family accommodations.

“Plus, I think you’re in shock. You didn’t even seem to know who I was five minutes ago. I’ll. Drive.”

Jughead still didn’t like it, but he could see Betty’s point. Without further argument, he walked to the passenger side of the pickup. To his amusement, she accompanied him, unlocking and opening his door for him with the keys he’d just handed her before walking around to the driver’s side. Apparently, getting in and leaning over to lock the door from the inside was not her style.

“You’re such a gentleman,” he said dryly as he stepped into the cab of the truck, his inner smile at Betty’s old-fashioned courtesy thawing a little more of the freeze that had set into his heart and mind at the morning’s shocking news, bringing him gently back to himself.

“Damn straight,” Betty agreed as she slid in beside him from the opposite side. She started the engine, frowning a little as it stuttered slightly before roaring to life. “I’ll have a look at that later,” she muttered as she checked her blind spot and threw the truck into gear.

She drove with an easy confidence that surprised Jughead, even as he acknowledged it probably shouldn’t. She’d spent years rebuilding and repairing cars with her dad; it stood to reason that, somewhere along the way, she’d have learned to operate one, too. But somehow, seeing her blonde ponytail swing as she checked her mirrors and blind spots and manoeuvred the truck through the narrow streets of the south side felt… out of place.

For a minute or two, she seemed to be listening to the engine still, her attention fully engaged in the truck and her own driving, but at a certain point, he felt her relax, driving more comfortably.

“So… what exactly did Archie say?” he asked her.

“Not much,” Betty shrugged, “and none of it terribly cogent. He and Fred met for breakfast at Pop’s. Given that they ‘met’ there, rather than ‘went’ there, I’m assuming Archie spent the night with Veronica, and Fred noticed. Anyway… they met at Pop’s, and someone shot Fred. It may have been in the restroom, but I’m not really sure. Archie definitely mentioned a restroom, but I couldn’t make much sense of the story.

“Archie was on the way to the hospital with Fred in the ambulance when he called. No one’s told him anything yet. And Fred’s unconscious. Well, that or…” her voice broke and she shook her head, as if to clear it. “he just asked me to meet him there,” she concluded when she was able.

And, almost simultaneously with her words, the Riverdale Memorial Hospital came into view, tiny when compared with a city facility, but well-maintained and significantly larger than any other building in the immediate area.

There were plenty of spaces available in the parking lot, but Betty passed the hospital driveway without slowing down and expertly parallel parked on the street about half a block away. Jughead looked at her quizzically.

“Fred was _shot_ , Jughead,” Betty said when she caught his glance. I’d say there’s a fair chance the police are going to show up here… if they haven’t already. And I’d just as soon not draw their attention to FP’s truck or my… grey market driving.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed, and slipped his arms out of the sleeves of his leather jacket. “No point provoking them when we want them to focus on Fred, not the Serpents,” he pointed out, and Betty nodded. Before she could step out of the truck’s cab, he slid a hand into her hair and pulled her gently towards him for a quick kiss. “This morning started a lot better than it’s turning out,” he told her quietly.

“It did,” Betty agreed, holding his gaze. “But, to paraphrase a very wise, and compellingly attractive man, I’m in this for the long haul… which means there are going to be mornings – lots of them, I hope – that don’t abruptly turn to utter shit.”


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** It has been way too long since I posted anything! I've been preoccupied with... well, _life_. Plus I've spent a fair chunk of the summer camping, which means no WiFi and no light for late-night scribbling. The plan is to get back to more regular posting now, though. I hope you're all having a fabulous summer.

### Chapter 40

Archie was pacing the floor of Riverdale Memorial Hospital’s waiting room, restless, impatient, and alone, but dry-eyed.

“Arch,” Betty said as soon as they cleared the door, and she walked straight into his arms for a bone-crushing hug.

“We came as fast as we could,” she murmured into his shoulder, her heart breaking a little at how tightly he clung to her, at the slight tremor in his body, at the wetness of the cheek that was pressed against her hair. She’d been Archie’s best friend through failed tests and lost football games, breakups, and his parents’ divorce. But she’d never seen him shattered, as he was right now.

“I knew you would,” he whispered, still holding her. “You never let me down,” he added as she gently extricated herself from his embrace and stepped back, creating space for Jughead to move in for a hug of his own.

“I’m so sorry, man,” Jughead said helplessly. Archie seemed to hesitate a moment, but then hugged his friend fiercely. “Is there anything I can do?” Jughead continued.

Archie shook his head brusquely. “There doesn’t even seem to be anything _I_ can do, apart from wearing a groove in this stupid, ugly floor,” he said bitterly.

“What happened, Arch?” Betty asked softly. “I mean, I know you told me on the phone but… I didn’t really take it all in.”

“I barely know,” Archie answered. “Dad texted me to meet him for breakfast at Pop’s. I wasn’t home yet because I… uhhh…” he hesitated, suddenly looking guilty, “stayed over at… a friend’s last night.”

He seemed to be waiting for some kind of response, so Betty nodded her understanding, prompting him to continue. Baffled as she was as to why he was being so coy about mentioning Veronica’s name, she wasn’t about to question him at this moment. The morning was surreal enough for _her_ ; she certainly didn’t want to add to Archie’s stress as he stood there with his father’s blood drying on his jeans.

“When I got to Pop’s, Dad had already ordered,” Archie continued, “so I went to the restroom to wash my hands. But while I was in there, I heard breaking glass… yelling…” he paused for a moment, both in his narrative and in his pacing, his unfocused gaze on the floor in front of him, before visibly shaking himself and carrying on. “When I came back… there was this guy in a mask, standing on the counter. He had a gun on Pop Tate.” Archie ignored Betty’s gasp at that. She couldn’t blame him; given that Fred had been shot, it was hardly surprising to learn there had been a gun involved. “I thought… I don’t know… maybe I could, like… sneak up on him. You know? Grab his gun?

“ _God!_ ” Archie interrupted himself, his voice suddenly harsh. “I’m so _stupid_!” Jughead took a step towards him, even as Betty laid a calming hand on his arm, stilling his pacing. He took a deep breath, and when he continued, his voice was quieter again. “Dad saw what I was thinking. He shook his head… warned me not to do it, but… I didn’t listen. I didn’t back down. And so he got up and started coming closer… trying to protect me. And the guy saw him. He jumped down from the counter… he was yelling something… and he… he shot him.” Archie sounded very young in that moment, and very lost. “He shot my dad,” he repeated.

And then he began to cry, harsh, wounded-sounding sobs that shook his whole body. “This is all my fault,” he gasped between sobs. “If I had just stayed back, Dad wouldn’t have stood up and…” he could barely speak through his tears, but Betty understood, and pulled him into a comforting hug, the kind she’d give to a small child along with the very same reassurance she offered now.

“This is _not_ your fault,” she whispered fiercely. “It’s horrible, and it’s scary, but it is one hundred per cent _not_ your fault.” She could sense Jughead at her back, supporting her, even before he moved closer, putting one arm around Archie’s shoulders and the other around Betty’s waist, gathering them both into the circle of his loving care.

Gradually, Archie’s sobs subsided and Betty stepped back from him, gently guiding him to a seat.

“Have you eaten?” Jughead asked practically, and Betty rolled her eyes at him.

“Jug…” she began.

“What?” he asked defensively. “It’s a fair question. We could be a long time, waiting here… not just today, but for days or weeks to come. And low blood sugar is no one’s friend.”

He wasn’t wrong, Betty realized, and she acknowledged it with a nod, even as Archie shook his head vehemently.

“I couldn’t eat anything,” he said absolutely.

Betty and Jughead exchanged a glance, laden with meaning and understanding, over Archie’s head.

“I could,” Betty said simply, responding to the prompt in Jughead’s eyes. “Could you grab some coffee, and maybe some sandwiches from the cafeteria, Juggie?” she suggested.

“I think that could be arranged,” he agreed. “Unless…” he turned back toward Archie, who had already stood and resumed his pacing. “Did Veronica already go?”

“What?” Archie stared at him blankly.

“Veronica… your girlfriend? She didn’t already make a run for provisions?” Archie’s expression didn’t change, and Jughead turned to mouth “wow” silently to Betty. “Apparently not,” he concluded as Archie continued to stare at him as if uncertain where they might have met before, or what language he was speaking. “So… I’ll be back in a few.” He bent and kissed Betty swiftly on the lips, squeezing her hand, before striding down the corridor towards the hospital cafeteria. And Betty found herself smiling softly, despite the awfulness of the situation, as she turned back towards Archie.

But her smile evaporated at the sight of his raw misery, his haunted expression, the bleakness in his eyes. She needed to focus. There were things that needed to be done, and it was beyond obvious that Archie wasn’t in any state to even _think_ of them, much less manage them.

“Arch,” she said gently, rising to stand directly in his path and taking his hand. “Let’s sit down a minute, okay?”

He nodded mechanically, and allowed her to guide him once again into one of the inevitably uncomfortable waiting room chairs that were welded together, side by side, in long, inhospitable rows that seemed designed to preclude both comfort and communication.

“Is Veronica on her way over?” Betty asked, starting with the simplest question. She was surprised that she’d still seen no sign of her friend.

“What?” Archie asked, just as he had with Jughead, looking slightly bewildered.

“Arch,” Betty hesitated, but clarity was dawning. “Have you spoken to Veronica yet? Does she know what’s going on?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to her. Not since… ummm…” he gave Betty another guilty glance.

“Not since you left her place this morning?” Betty guessed, and Archie nodded, looking self-conscious. “Okay. That’s totally okay, Arch.

“But Veronica cares about you. I think she’d want to know what’s going on. Is it okay with you if I call her, or do you want to…”

“You… please,” he said. “If the doctors come…”

“Of course,” Betty agreed, keeping her tone relaxed. “You’ll want to be free in case there’s any news, or in case they have any questions. I can call her.

“I’m going to call your mom, too, okay?” she added. Betty didn’t want to say it, but she was worried about Archie, staying home alone while Fred was in the hospital… or worse. Mary needed to make some decisions about Archie’s care. “And your grandparents,” she added. “They’ve already left for Florida, right?” She could see that she’d lost Archie’s attention. He couldn’t pace, because she was still holding his hand, but his eyes were tracing his path over and over again. It didn’t matter anyway; she knew Fred’s parents had left for Florida in mid-October, as they always did.

“I’m going to call Veronica now, okay, Arch?” Betty said. “Then, she can sit with you while I make the other calls.”

Archie nodded, but pulled his hand away, resuming his restless pacing once again. Betty let him go. He obviously felt better in motion. When Veronica arrived, and when Jughead returned with food, _she_ could coax Archie to sit down and have a bite to eat.

Betty pulled out her phone and selected Veronica’s number, feeling an odd sense of dislocation. It seemed like years – _centuries_ – since they’d said goodbye at Pop’s last night.

Veronica answered on the second ring.

“Miss Betty Not Mildred Cooper!” she exclaimed teasingly. “I am _deeply_ disappointed in you! All our plans, all of plotting… the very least you could do is to be wrapped around a darkly handsome and brooding young author right now. _Or_ sleeping the sleep of satisfied exhaustion,” she added thoughtfully. “Either would be acceptable. What is _not_ acceptable is for you to be calling me, unless you…”

“V,” Betty interrupted her through a throat that ached with longing. _God_ , how she wished she could match Veronica’s tone… wished she could go back to last night, when she’d been as care-free as Veronica sounded now. Or she wished she could return to those sun-drenched moments with Jughead when she’d first awakened. She’d take _any_ moment, really, in which she didn’t have to shut down Veronica’s happy morning –after babble. Any moment in which Fred Andrews hadn’t been shot.

But the only moment she had was this one. “I’m calling from the hospital,” she told Veronica.

“Oh my God!” Veronica gasped. “Are you okay? Is Jughead okay?”

“We’re fine,” Betty assured her quickly. “It’s Fred…”

“Fred _Andrews_?” Veronica interrupted incredulously. “He’s not sick, is he? He just texted Archie, like, an hour and a half ago and he didn’t say anything…”

“He’s been shot,” Betty interrupted again. She hated to be so bald about it, but the minutes were ticking away, and the doctors could return at any moment with news or questions. There were calls to be made, arrangements to be considered.

Veronica fell silent for an ominous moment. “ _I’m_ sorry,” she said at last, her tone brittle… almost sing-song. “Fred’s been _what_?”

“Shot,” Betty confirmed heavily. “Look, Veronica, I know you have a lot of questions.” Over the phone, Veronica snorted. “We _all_ do,” Betty continued. “But can we just, like… _park_ them until you get here? Juggie and I are with Archie at the hospital, but… he could really use your support. We _all_ could.”

“I’ll have Smithers bring the car around,” Veronica said in a subdued tone, all traces of laughter and teasing erased from her voice. “I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”


	41. Chapter 41

### Chapter 41

“There is literally _no_ part of my body that’s not tired right now,” Jughead groaned as he settled into the passenger’s seat of FP’s truck. “Maybe my eyelashes,” he amended, and blinked experimentally. “Nope. They’re tired, too. How is it even _possible_ to be this tired from just sitting?”

Slumped in the driver’s seat, it took Betty a moment to muster the energy to reply.

“That’s just one of the mysteries of life, Jug,” she said after a long pause. “Although I suspect it’s the waiting and the worry that wore us out, more than the sitting _per se_.” She took a deep breath, then rolled her shoulders and shook her head a few times before starting the truck and throwing it into gear. They drove in silence for several minutes, as Betty retraced in reverse the route she’d driven long hours ago.

It was nearing midnight. They’d been at the hospital for endless hours… hours of anxious waiting and interminable cups of mediocre coffee that merged into a hazy blur that seemed to separate them from the events of this morning by a distance of _years_. Hours of devastating phone calls and too-infrequent updates from the medical team. Hours of coaxing Archie to eat and coaching him through his alternating waves of vengeful anger and despairing self-recrimination.

Betty had called her parents around noon; the official story was that she’d still been at Veronica’s – where she had, of course, spent the night – when Archie had called his girlfriend to inform her of the shooting, and the two girls had traveled together to the hospital, meeting Archie and Jughead there.

Alice had been uncharacteristically understanding, even supportive, which was all the more surprising in light of her longstanding antipathy towards both the Andrews and the Jones families, not to mention her distinct lack of enthusiasm for Betty’s friendship with Veronica. She hadn’t demanded Betty’s immediate return home. Indeed, she’d gone so far as to drop by the hospital briefly in the late afternoon with a plant for Fred’s room, and a basket of homemade muffins and fresh fruit for the group in the waiting room. She’d even agreed, without more than token resistance, that Veronica could come home with Betty for the night, whenever they were ready to leave the hospital, so that the four teenagers could travel together.

“You really earned _your_ tired,” Jughead said, breaking the silence in the truck as the narrowed streets and burned-out streetlamps gave evidence they’d crossed into the south side. “The rest of us were sitting and waiting and worrying. But you? You were amazing.

“You _were_ ,” he insisted, as Betty shot him a disbelieving side-eye.

“I just made a few phone calls,” Betty said dismissively, her eyes still on the road.

“You took charge,” Jughead corrected her, his voice stronger and more certain than it had been all day. “You…” he trailed off, laughing self-consciously.

“What?” Betty asked, curious enough to ask in spite of her fatigue and her focus on the road. “ _What_?” she repeated more insistently as Jughead still hesitated.

“You reminded me of... your mom…” he began.

“Oh my _GOD_!” Betty interrupted, clearly horrified.

“In a _good_ way,” Jughead finished emphatically.

“ _How_ can that _possibly_ be a good thing?” Betty demanded. “My mother terrifies you, remember?”

“And you don’t,” Jughead answered. “Your mom is scary and overbearing and manipulative and self-involved…”

“You’re not making things better here, Jug,” Betty interrupted again, dryly.

“… but she gets things done,” Jughead concluded, as though she hadn’t spoken. “When things get tough, Alice snaps into hyper drive. It’s scary, but it’s also hella effective.

“And _that_ was what was so impressive about you today, Cooper.” Betty smiled, weakly, at his use of her last name. “It was like you were channeling Alice’s efficiency and her know-how… all of her _best_ qualities. But you? _Weren’t_ scary. You were compassionate and respectful and supportive… and you still got it all done. You made everything bearable… not just for Archie, but for all of us.

“You were _amazing_ ,” he repeated again, softly, and Betty couldn’t help but smile again in response.

“Thanks, Juggie,” she said after another pause. “I still think you’re exaggerating, but… it means a lot that you think so.”

They lapsed into exhausted silence again as they neared the trailer park, Jughead too tired to argue with her about what he knew to be true.

Betty had thought of everything. She’d stayed with Archie, comforting him, encouraging him, until Veronica arrived, pretty much simultaneously with his own return from the cafeteria with a cardboard tray of cardboard-flavoured sandwiches and tepid coffee. Then, she’d delegated the job of supporting Archie and cajoling him into eating half a sandwich to Veronica… while she went to work.

Borrowing Archie’s phone to access his numbers, she’d called Mary Andrews in Chicago and brought her up to speed on the situation. Mary was flying back to Riverdale, but wouldn’t arrive until late tomorrow evening. The two women had agreed that Archie shouldn’t be left alone, though.

So Betty had called the Fosters, and had enlisted their support in persuading Social Services that Jughead could delay his move to the south side until Monday, allowing him to stay with Archie at the Andrews’ house until Mary arrived. He simply go to the Fosters after school on Monday afternoon instead of moving in today.

She’d called Fred’s parents, too, at their winter condo in Florida, to let them know what was happening and promise to keep them informed.

Eventually, a doctor had come to update Archie on his father’s condition – critical, with a collapsed lung, abdominal hemorrhaging, and severe blood loss at the top of a very long list of concerns – and Archie had insisted that all three of his friends remain with him. But while Jughead and Veronica stared alternately at the doctor and the floor, Betty had pulled out a list of questions. Somehow, she’d found time to summarize all the issues and concerns that Mary and old Mr. and Mrs. Andrews and Archie himself had voiced throughout the morning, and she made sure the doctor answered every single one of them – taking notes on his replies – before he left the waiting room to prepare for what was likely to be hours of surgery.

At which point Betty stepped boldly up to the registration desk at the triage station and gently, but firmly, informed the receptionist that Archie would be in the cafeteria and should be paged immediately in the event of any news.

And so it had gone throughout the day, as afternoon faded into evening and then wore on into the night, Betty always seeming one step ahead, keeping track of medical updates and new questions, coordinating logistics. By the time Fred came out of surgery, his bleeding stopped, but his condition by no means stable, Betty had arranged with a neighbour to have Fred’s truck waiting at the airport, 40 miles away, when Mary’s flight landed and for Mary to meet Fred’s parents’ flight and bring them to Riverdale with her. She'd updated them all on the latest news from the doctor, informed Mary of the arrangements for Jughead to stay with Archie, double-checked flight times...

And she’d done it all without being overbearing, or strident, or adding conflict or stress to the already hellish day. She’d never been too busy to offer a snack or a hug or a listening ear, even as she orchestrated the necessary logistics of the entire, bizarre situation. 

She could deny it all she wanted, but Jughead stood by his original statement: Betty had been amazing, all day, and it stood to reason that her exhaustion was correspondingly even greater than his own… which was frankly hard to imagine.

Betty pulled into the driveway of FP’s trailer and cut the engine, sagging back into her seat once again. She was probably too tired – as well as too young and too unlicensed – to drive. But, as she had pointed out, leaving FP’s truck parked on the street near the hospital overnight could draw unwanted attention, raising awkward questions about how it had gotten there. She’d wanted to drop the truck off “real quick,” and then walk home, checking on Archie and Jughead at the Andrews house and picking up Veronica before returning home. But the idea of Betty trekking back from the south side, alone, in the middle of the night had not found significant favour with the rest of the group. Even Archie had roused from his all-day abstraction to firmly reject that scenario. Veronica had suggested asking Smithers to return the truck. But that would both have left him, equally stranded on the south side (and probably less equipped than Betty to deal with any interference he might encounter on the way home), and have invited his questions on how the truck got to the hospital in the first place.

In the end, they’d all agreed that Betty and Jughead would return the truck, and then wait at the trailer. Veronica would call Smithers to collect her and Archie at the hospital, and then they’d pick up Jughead and Betty, who – should Smithers ask – would have been tidying up the trailer in preparation for Jughead’s move. Not that Smithers was in the habit of asking personal questions, as Veronica had assured them, but it felt more secure to be prepared.

“I could sleep right here,” Betty said now without opening her eyes. “Steering wheel… gearshift… nothing’s poky enough to keep me awake for long.”

Jughead couldn’t help himself. He snickered, then burst into a full-on giggle, prompting Betty to open her eyes and glare at him.

“Poky?” he teased.

“It’s a word,” Betty said with dignity.

“A _funny_ word,” Jughead agreed with mock solemnity. “And Betts? I’m probably not the person you should be talking to about something ‘ _poky_ ’ keeping you up at night.”

Betty snorted, which only made Jughead laugh harder, and their shared laughter seemed to dissolve some of the weight of the day that was pressing down on them.

“How long do we have before they pick us up?” Betty asked at last, handing Jughead FP’s keys and reaching for the door to get out of the truck.

“Veronica said they’d be about 20 minutes behind us,” Jughead answered. “We might as well wait inside.” He pocketed the keys and locked his door before stepping to the ground. He circled the front of the truck, and found Betty leaning against the driver’s side door, visibly drooping with fatigue as the brief second wind born of their laughter ebbed away.

He slipped an arm around her waist and held her close for a moment, relishing the way her arms slid inside his jacket as she leaned into him.

“C’mon,” he said, and turned toward the trailer with Betty tucked closely against his side. When he started up the steps, though, Betty hung back.

“Can we just sit out here?” she asked him, her voice hushed in the night. “I feel like I’ve been breathing recirculated air forever.”

“You won’t be too cold?” Jughead asked, noticing the clouds their breath was making in the night air, but Betty shook her head.

“I’m good,” she assured him, and they sat side by side on the front steps, Betty still leaning on Jughead as his arm wrapped her close.

The trailer park was poorly lit, which wasn’t optimal for security. But they wouldn’t be here long… and without the light pollution of the town, they had an unobstructed view of the stars, seeming somehow closer in the cold, night air. The air was bracingly cool, but not uncomfortably so, and its freshness did seem to clear away some of the cobwebs of the hospital. They sat in silence, but it was different from the silence in the truck. While that had felt like simple exhaustion, this was different… more intimate… a silence of companionship and restoration, rather than fatigue.

Too soon, they saw headlights approaching the trailer park, and Betty sighed.

“I wish we could just… stay here,” she said wistfully.

Jughead smiled wryly. “I was wishing the same thing,” he said, watching the approach of the Lodge’s pristine, though dated, town car. “And not only because FP’s bed is significantly closer than Archie’s.

“Come on, Juliet,” he stood and held out a hand to her as the car crunched to a stop on the weedy gravel of FP’s driveway. “There will be other nights.”

“Promise?” Betty asked him, smiling a little sadly so that he knew she was thinking about his impending move to the Fosters, about the giant question mark over whether he could even hang on to FP’s trailer if his dad were sentenced to a long incarceration.

“Definitely,” he said, pushing aside his own doubts, his heartache at the thought of breaking their routine of nights spent together. “And hey, tonight is still young,” he added. “If you can coax Veronica into a pair of sneakers, we may be able to make a trade after we all turn in tonight… I’m sure Archie would rather snuggle with her than with me anyway.”

“I dunno, Jug,” Betty answered, her smile more natural now. “He’s had a pretty rough day… and you _do_ provide state-of-the-art night-time reassurance. I’m not sure Veronica can compete.”

Jughead smiled back at her as he opened the car door and stepped back to let her in. “She’ll learn,” he said.


	42. Chapter 42

### Chapter 42

They’d all been together for hours… in the waiting room, the cafeteria, the Lodges’ car… Except for the brief period when Betty and Jughead had gone to clandestinely return FP’s truck, they’d all been together since early morning. They’d said all there was to say, rehashed every detail they’d received from the doctors and the police – frustratingly sparse, in both cases – before they’d left the hospital, having been assured that, although Fred was out of surgery, he was both heavily sedated and extremely weak. He wouldn’t wake before morning, at the earliest. And, of course, there was always the possibility that he wouldn’t wake at all. There was, quite simply, nothing left for anyone to say.

And yet, when Smithers pulled away, leaving the four of them in the Andrews’ driveway, it seemed remarkably difficult to say goodnight and go their separate ways. They huddled together, talking in hushed voices, partly to avoid arousing the neighbours’ ire, partly out of habit after so many hours in the hospital where too much volume seemed to draw disapproving stares.

It was Betty, inevitably, who eventually forced the issue.

“We should go,” she said at last, heaving a sigh as she glanced at Veronica. “My mom’s expecting us both; she’s probably waiting up.”

Veronica nodded, squeezing Archie’s hand and giving a half-wave to Jughead before turning towards the Coopers’ yard.

“’Night,” Jughead called softly to them both as they walked away, every movement, every line of their bodies eloquent of their exhaustion. Archie remained both silent and unmoving, until Jughead slid an arm around his shoulders and gently propelled him towards the kitchen door.

“C’mon, man,” he said with uncharacteristic gentleness as he unlocked the door… uncharacteristic, at least, towards anyone other than Betty or Jellybean. “You need sleep.”

Archie snorted. “Like _that’s_ gonna happen,” he said.

“You have to try,” Jughead counselled. “You can’t help your dad if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“I can’t help my dad at _all_ , Jug,” Archie said with a burst of sudden anger, throwing off Jughead’s hands almost fiercely, “so I can’t see where it makes a hell of a lot of difference _what_ I do!”

“Maybe not now,” Jughead replied evenly, still ostentatiously holding the door open until Archie finally stepped into the kitchen. “But you don’t know what he’ll need tomorrow… or next week…”

“What, Juggie?” Archie interrupted, his tone still hostile. “You think I’m gonna become… what? a surgeon? a physiotherapist? by next week?”

“Well, if you _did_ , it would be almost impressive enough to justify how proud Fred is of you already. _Almost_ ,” Jughead repeated the key word, purposely keeping his tone neutral, trying not to escalate the situation. They were both exhausted, Archie had seemed dazed and half in shock all day. And now, he was clearly teetering on the brink of some kind of emotional melt-down that, while totally understandable, had the potential to get messy.

“Come on, Archie. Your dad doesn’t need you to be part of his medical team. He has an actual _medical team_ for that. He just… needs you. You are, without question, the most important thing in his life… the most important thing in the _world_ to him.

“And he _may_ need you to help him around the house when he gets home.

“Or he _may_ need you to keep an eye on things at work while he can’t.

“Or he _may_ just… _need you_. And you know as well as I do, Archie, Fred’s always… _always_ going to put you first. Which means, in case you’re too busy being pissed at me, or at Veronica, or at the world, to have figured it out yet,” there was an edge to Jughead’s voice now, “that he’s not going to focus on taking care of himself if he’s worrying. About. You.

“So maybe you’ll sleep, and maybe you won’t, but you’re sure as hell going to try, so that when Fred wakes up, he’ll see that you’re taking care of yourself, so that he can do the same.”

Archie blinked at him, nodding rapidly for a moment. He looked as if he were about to speak, but instead, his face crumpled and he sank to the floor, his back against the kitchen counter, as he gave way to sobs.

Without a word, Jughead slid down beside him, pulled his best friend into a hug, and cried right along with him.

***

Betty had been right about Alice waiting up. In her housecoat, face scrubbed free of makeup, she looked both older and more human than usual, Veronica had reflected on seeing her. And while her greeting hadn’t been precisely warm – _and_ though her curiosity had been an almost palpable presence in the room – she hadn’t insulted Veronica’s family _or_ probed too hard for gruesome details about the shooting before sending them up to Betty’s room to rest.

There was a pallet on the floor next to Betty’s bed, blankets and pillows arranged meticulously for maximum comfort. Veronica eyed it with grim amusement.

“So, friend of my heart,” she said with a valiant attempt at her usual insouciance – an attempt that, even to her own ears, fell far short of the mark – “are you going to just accept that I’m taking the floor, or will I need to kick your shapely ass to persuade you to plunk it into your bed and leave me to my fate?”

Betty glanced at her in quick surprise. “You’re staying?” she asked.

“Was I not supposed to?” Veronica asked, eyebrows raised in equal amazement, and Betty shrugged.

“I guess I just assumed coming here was a cover. So you could… you know…” she trailed off awkwardly until Veronica, staring back at her, made a ‘go on’ gesture with both hands. “Be with Archie?” Betty finished lamely.

“Ah.” Veronica’s shoulders sagged a bit. “Well, if we’re going _there_ , Ms. Cooper, then you’re going to have to budge over on that bed.” She threw herself down on one side of the bed, her feet towards the pillows, flinging an arm dramatically over her eyes as she did.

Betty chuckled tiredly and lay down on the other side, her feet towards Veronica’s head so they could see each other’s faces without going cross-eyed, and tossing a pillow towards her friend. “Going _where_ , exactly?” she asked.

“Archie’s. Or, more properly, _not_ Archie’s. Unless it is.” Veronica answered and Betty blinked owlishly at her.

“I’m confused,” Betty said after a pause. “Archie’s. As in, _Archie_ Archie? Red hair, guitar… your _boyfriend_ , Archie?”

Veronica nodded, then shook her head. “’ _Boyfriend_ ’ may be a stretch,” she said flatly. “And therein lies the rub.”

“Veronica, did something… happen last night?” Betty asked in concern.

“Define ‘happen,’” Veronica temporized.

“Happen, as in _happen_ … occur… transpire… go wrong,” Betty said impatiently. “I’m not trying to make assumptions here, but… you and Archie were all cuddly and adorable at Pop’s last night. You left together, and I _know_ he was still with you when Fred asked him to meet for breakfast. Does that… _not_ add up to ‘boyfriend?’ Or did something _happen_ after you left Pop’s?”

Veronica sighed, torn between desperately wanting to confide in her closest friend, and a lifetime’s habit of never showing vulnerability… to anyone.

“Nothing happened last night,” she said after a heavy pause, throwing caution to the wind. “Not in the way you mean, anyway. Yes, Archie spent the night with me… in the very fullest sense of the term. There was laughter… talk of soulmates…”

“Veronica, that’s _wonderful_ ,” Betty enthused, her sincerity impossible to miss.

“This morning, however,” Veronica cut her off, “was a different story.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Betty agreed as if it were obvious. “And a _crappy_ story at that. I mean, Fred was _shot_.”

“So _you_ told me,” Veronica answered with unmistakable emphasis.

“Veronica…” Betty began helplessly, but Veronica hadn’t finished.

“He stayed with me the whole night, Betty. And it was a wonderful, magical night.

“But this morning, when the excrement hit the air propulsion device… I wasn’t even on his radar. It was like I didn’t even exist.

“So tell me… did Archie call you and Jughead this morning?

“Or did he just call _you_?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking me,” Betty said carefully, “ _or_ why it matters.”

“Who did he call, Betty?” Veronica asked again, all of her fatigue suddenly overwhelming her, dimming the usual sparkle in her voice. “It’s not a complicated question and… it just matters… okay?”

“Okay,” Betty agreed quietly. “I’m just… I’m not sure what to tell you. He called _my_ phone, definitely. And when he told me what had happened, I said _we’d_ meet him at the hospital. But…” she reflected a moment, then shook her head helplessly. “I’m sorry, Veronica. I really don’t remember whether he mentioned Jughead, or whether I did… I’m not sure whether he knew we were together or not. I just can’t say whether he was calling just me, or whether he planned to talk to both of us. Is it really so important?”

Veronica raised her head slightly to level Betty with a disbelieving look. “Important?” she asked tartly. “Well, the fate of the nations doesn’t exactly hang in the balance, I suppose. But before I get _completely_ eviscerated, it would be nice to have at least some kind of a warning, so it’s pretty damned ‘important’ to me.”

She sighed heavily as Betty continued to stare at her in bafflement.

“ _Soulmates_ , Betty. That’s where I thought Archie and I were… or at least where I thought we were heading. Soulmates… end game… love for the ages… like you and Mr. January-through-December in the 2017 edition of the Homeless Hotties of Riverdale calendar.

“But soulmates have each other’s backs in the bad times. They lean on each other. Whereas I,it appears, am only good for fun-filled milkshake runs and, if you’ll forgive the expression, _my_ milkshake. Which would tend to suggest that I am less ‘soulmate’ material and more of a ‘side chick’ contender. Except that there’s not even a ‘centre’ chick for me to be on the ‘side’ of!

“Unless… it’s you,” she concluded at last, looking directly at Betty.

Betty laughed, a quick peal of too-loud-for-the-hour, genuinely surprised laughter. She stifled it quickly behind her hand, glancing at the door as if expecting to see Alice or Hal storming in to shush her, but still struggling with giggles… until she caught sight of Veronica’s face and realized her friend was serious. The, she sobered quickly.

“Veronica,” she said earnestly. “You _know_ that’s not true… right? I mean… Archie and me?” she scoffed slightly. “No. Just… no.”

Veronica shrugged, glancing away in embarrassment. “You’re the one he called first,” she muttered, hating herself for sounding petty and jealous.

But Betty didn’t call her on it. “Because I’m his friend,V,” she said gently. “We’ve all been best friends – Archie, Juggie and me – for pretty much our entire lives. He called me on a tin can and a piece of string when his dog got hit by a car, and he nearly set his curtains on fire trying to send me smoke signals when he was grounded one time and Fred confiscated the can. Calling me is just… autopilot for him, Veronica. It doesn’t make you the ‘side chick!’”

“But he _never_ called me… not first, not second… not at all,” Veronica pointed out. “ _You_ called me. If I’d had to wait for Archie, I’d still be sitting at home.”

“So would his mom,” Betty said reasonably. “I called _everyone_ today… Fred’s parents, Archie’s mom… or his ‘side mom,’” she added dryly.

Veronica threw the pillow back at her, even as she grinned reluctantly. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?” she admitted.

“Li’l bit, yeah,” Betty agreed, deadpan, then broke out in giggles.

“Fine,” Veronica said with a long-suffering sigh… an Ice Queen of New York sigh that would have been completely beyond her just a few minutes ago. “Mock me if you will…”

“Oh, I will,” Betty interjected.

Veronica rolled her eyes, but otherwise didn’t react. “But I think I _will_ stay here tonight,” she added, “unless Archie wants me to come over. I’m glad he’s not alone and… he may just want someone… comfortable to be with him.”

“Well, Jughead _is_ pretty 'comfortable',” Betty smiled.

“So, now that _that’s_ settled,” Veronica said briskly with a return to her usual demeanour, “shall we begin the requisite bickering over who’s going to be noble and take the floor?”

“Nah,” Betty said, still smiling despite her exhaustion. “You just kept me awake an extra 20 minutes to discuss a question that was utterly stupid.

“For that, you can take the floor.”


	43. Chapter 43

### Chapter 43

Sunday felt entirely too much like a repeat of Saturday.

It began differently, of course – with Veronica rather than Jughead, with anxiety rather than anticipation. And Smithers picked up Veronica and Betty, as well as the boys next door, and delivered them to the hospital after breakfast, obviating the necessity for both auto theft (“unauthorized borrowing,” Betty had corrected Jughead with dignity when he teased her) or underage driving.

There had been differences throughout the day, too. 

No more surgery for Fred… just blank unconsciousness, hour after unending hour. 

A visit from Kevin around noon, his honest, horrified sympathy tempering his usual, snappy commentary… and neither quite concealing his deep hurt at having been left out – utterly forgotten – the previous day. He’d learned about the shooting from his father, and Betty had kicked herself for leaving him off her list of calls, as she watched him valiantly set aside his own hurt feelings to support Archie… to support all of them.

But by the time evening rolled around, those slight variations had melted into insignificance, the fabric of the day like the recurrence of a nightmare in which minor details would change… yet every twist led straight back to the same horror.

The endless hours of waiting, the parade of Styrofoam coffee cups the only tangible evidence of the passage of time. The brief bursts of excitement each time a doctor or nurse of similarly omniscient-looking personage appeared, fading to disappointment, then resignation, as they repeated the same vague phrases on a meaningless, continuous loop.

“Critical, but stable, condition…”

“Early days…”

“Too soon to tell…”

“Wait and see…”

With each repetition of this unsatisfactory litany, Archie’s tension ratcheted up a notch until he was alternating between bouts of apathetic, abstracted silence and angry, almost frenetic, activity made worse by the absence of any constructive outlet for his energy. But at least he was eating, a fact that Betty noted with relief but didn’t comment on, partly in deference to a hard look Jughead gave her when Archie accepted a sandwich without argument, partly just because she was conserving her energy.

Around 10:30 that night, Mary Andrews arrived. She’d dropped off Fred’s parents at their own home – they would rest and visit in the morning – and come straight to the hospital.

Archie was pacing restlessly again when she arrived, Veronica hanging back, striking a difficult balance between being visible and available if he needed her, and not getting flattened by his impatient strides across a waiting room too small to contain his energy.

When the glass doors slid open, Betty glanced up, too tired to raise her head of Jughead’s shoulders until the sight of Mary lifted her spirits, flooding her with relief. She hated herself for it a moment later, but in that first instant, her immediate thought was “Great, now _she_ can take charge.” She felt brittle, scraped raw and stretched to the breaking point by the demands of the past few days.

But Mary didn’t even glance her way as she strode directly to Archie and enfolded him in her arms. Archie clung to his mother desperately, as Veronica hovered awkwardly in the background. It occurred to Betty that this was probably the first time, ever, that she’d seen her sophisticated friend looking completely off-balance and uncertain of her place.

Everything seemed to move very quickly from that point, and Betty allowed herself to be swept up in Mary’s momentum as the newest arrival looked in on Fred before subjecting the medical team to a catechism that called to mind the Spanish Inquisition. Betty was conscious of a vague, dull satisfaction that the staff had no more information than what they’d already shared with her… what she in turn had already relayed to Mary by phone. It was good to know that they hadn’t just been putting her off, saving the real information until someone more… impressive, or… competent, or just… _more_ showed up.

It was even better to see someone else making decisions, taking the lead.

And in a remarkably short time, Mary had finished cross-examining the hospital staff, loaded them into the pickup truck, and was driving them home. She dropped Veronica at her own building, lingering in front of its quietly elegant entrance until she saw Veronica safely inside, the door latched behind her, before driving home in a silence broken only by her question to Betty.

“Shall I pull in at your driveway, kiddo?”

“Oh, no,” Betty protested without even bothering to raise her head from Jughead’s chest. “I’ll be inside just as fast from your… uh… from… Archie’s place,” she finished awkwardly. It had been more than five years since Mary had moved to Chicago, but Betty still didn’t know what to call the Andrews’ home when speaking to Mary.

“Well, if you’re sure…” Mary said, sounding relieved to avoid even a brief extra stop, not even seeming to notice Betty’s conversational fumble. She pulled into the driveway of Fred and Archie’s home – the home she’d shared with them for so many years, and Betty wondered idly what _that_ was like… being a visitor in what used to be your own home. She was too tired to pursue the thought, though, and stifled a yawn as she slid towards the door Jughead was holding open for her.

“Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Andrews,” Betty yawned, then winced. True, she’d always called Mary “Mrs. Andrews,” but it seemed somehow tactless to call her that now, years after the divorce.

Mary didn’t even seem to register it, though. “Thank _you_ , kiddo,” she corrected, coming around the truck to hug Betty fiercely. “You’ve really stepped up these past couple of days. The entire hospital staff is in awe of you… and they don’t even _know_ what you did to get me here, and to make sure Archie wasn’t alone until I arrived.

“You were always a sweet kid, Betty Cooper. But you’ve grown into one _hell_ of a woman.”

Betty’s eyes brimmed with tears as she returned Mary’s hug, too moved by such praise from a woman she'd always admired to find voice for more than a quick, choked ‘good night’ to the little group huddled in the driveway. Jughead pressed a quick kiss to her lips, holding her gaze as he did so.

“Later?” he mouthed to silently, and she nodded once, decisively before turning towards home.

***

“Is anyone hungry?” Mary asked as she followed Jughead and Archie into the Andrews’ kitchen.

“No thanks, Mrs. A,” Jughead said quickly. “I think I’m just gonna call it a night. New school tomorrow and all that…” He yawned unconvincingly as he backed out of the kitchen. “I’ll just… let you two catch up.” And he was gone.

Archie rolled his eyes, then realized his mother was staring at the door through which Jughead had just exited, her mouth slightly agape.

“Mom?” he said, concerned.

But his voice seemed to recall Mary to herself. She closed her mouth, straightened slightly, and turned her full attention back to him.

“Sorry, honey,” she said with a tired smile. “I’ve just… never seen Jughead turn down food before. _Ever_.”

Archie was fairly certain he knew _exactly_ what was behind his friend’s unprecedented refusal, but chose not to enlighten his mother. There were more than enough conversations, ranging from mildly difficult to downright painful, barreling towards them at the moment. He quite simply did not have the bandwidth to take on this one, too. He just shrugged, thankful when Mary appeared prepared to let it go.

“Can I fix you something?” Mary was offering, but Archie shook his head. 

“Nah, I’m good,” he answered.

“Oh, thank God!” Mary sighed, startling him. “I step into this kitchen, and it’s like my brain blasts back to living here. But it just occurred to me that I don’t even have a clue what’s in the refrigerator right now. Honestly, the way your father grocery shops, I might not be able to fix you anything more appealing that expired mayonnaise and baking soda on green bread!”

Archie couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud, his mom joining him. But he stopped almost immediately, consumed with guilt. How could he stand here and laugh with his dad lying in the hospital with no guarantee of recovery?

“You know it’s okay to laugh, right, sweetie?” his mom asked, correctly interpreting his mood.

It wasn’t, but he nodded jerkily anyway, hoping to end the conversation there. But Mary wasn’t so easily put off. “It _is_ ,” she persisted. “This is… how it is. It’s... _life_ , and sometimes that means that the tragedy and the comedy come all mixed up together.

“Sometimes, tragedy strikes out of a clear blue sky, just when things seem perfect. And sometimes your whole world is falling apart, and right in the middle of it… something just strikes you funny and… you can’t help but laugh.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t mean you don’t care about what’s happening. It’s just… the deal.”

Archie shrugged, not prepared to argue with her, but not willing to concede the point and assuage his own guilt either.

Suddenly, Mary laughed again, a different laugh this time… reminiscent and soft.

“Did I ever tell you about your Grandpa Pete’s funeral?” she asked, and Archie shook his head. His mother’s father had died when he, Archie, was only three or four years old. All he remembered of him was that he tickled Archie with his whiskers every time he saw him, and that those whiskers always seemed to smell like peppermints.

“You were too little to attend,” Mary was telling him, “and anyway, the funeral was right at your nap time. Daddy had been cremated. He’d donated his organs, right down to his eyes, and he’d told us to cremate whatever was left and scatter his ashes over at Sweetwater River.

“Well, scattering the ashes was my job. I’d been crying for days, but I was determined to follow Daddy’s wishes to the letter. We’d had the service at the church, and then we went out to the river, right at the bend Dad liked to fish, just the way he’d wanted it. The pastor read a verse, and then it was time for the scattering…

“And I couldn’t get the urn open. I twisted and I pulled and I pried, but that damned lid just _would not_ come off.

“And all of a sudden, I swear to you, Archie, all I could think about was that, if Daddy was there, he’s say that urn was harder to get into than an old maid’s panties. And I started to giggle… right there, with Daddy’s urn in my hands. And the more I tried to stop, the harder I laughed, until I plopped right down on the riverbank – if your dad hadn’t grabbed me, I probably would have slid right in – and laughed and laughed, thinking how tickled Daddy would have been by the whole scene.

“I _adored_ my father, Archie. And I still miss him to this day, all these years later. Sometimes, I still wake up in the night, missing him so hard my stomach hurts. Sometimes, I want to tell him something, and I dial his number before I remember that he isn’t going to answer the phone ever again.

“His death was one of the worst things that’s happened to me in my entire life, and I loved him more than I can say. And at his funeral? I laughed so hard, I actually peed a little.”

“It just… feels wrong,” Archie said, even as a reluctant grin spread across his face.

“I know it does, sweetie,” his mother said, pulling him into another hug. “But it’s not. And when Fred wakes up? He’ll tell you the very same thing.”

For a moment, they just stood, leaning against the counter as they held each other close.

Then, something shifted in Mary’s posture, and her tone as she stared over Archie’s shoulder and out the window over the sink was elaborately casual.

“Archie,” she asked conversationally, “ _why_ is Jughead scaling the side of the Cooper’s house in his pajamas?”


	44. Chapter 44

### Chapter 44

Jughead hadn’t wanted to sleep.

This would be his last night in Betty’s bed for who-knew-how-long –- quite apart from the distance, he had a distinct impression that he was about to become the focus of more intense adult supervision that had ever come his way before –- and he wanted to savour every moment.

They were both exhausted, of course… wrung out with work and worry and waiting… far too tired to attempt anything more than lying quietly, restfully tangled together. But that was enough. It was _more_ than enough… more than he’d ever dreamed of, actually.

So when Betty had raised her window, her sleepy kiss tasting like toothpaste, her much-washed flannel nightshirt like butter beneath his palms, and wrapped herself around him in bed, nestling into her accustomed space against his body as if she’d been carved to fit him, he’d fully intended to stay awake all night, drinking in every breath, every sensation… fortifying himself against a future of nights at the Fosters’ in a bed her already knew would feel much too empty.

But nature and comfort won out, and he’d slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep mere moment after Betty’s breath against his neck had settled into a regular and blessedly familiar rhythm.

And now it was morning, chilly and grey. The sun, late and sluggishly sullen in rising reminded him that winter was fast approaching… and confronted him with a dilemma.

On the one hand, he was loth to wake Betty. He’d been sincere the other night in the truck: she’d been _amazing_ these past few days, blowing past all his preconceived ideas of what she was capable of… and he’d already been pretty convinced that she was the most impressively competent person in Riverdale, if not the state. She had, without question, earned a solid three days at least of sleep and self-indulgence. Of course, Alice would never sign off on Betty missing school, so that wasn’t going to happen. But he was desperately reluctant to wake her one millisecond sooner than absolutely necessary.

On the other hand, he wouldn’t be back tonight. He wouldn’t walk to school with Betty and Archie this morning, wouldn’t sit with them in the cafeteria at lunch, wouldn’t endure a platitude-laden speech in the gym from Weatherbee at some point in the day, trying to draw moral lessons from Fred’s shooting.

Jughead would spend today in the dingy halls, under the flickering fluorescent lights of South Side High. And when it was over… he’d walk to the Fosters’ house to begin his new life. So leaving Betty without saying goodbye felt just as wrong as waking her when she was so desperately tired.

And then the decision was taken out of his hands as Betty stirred against him, her movements stirring him in other ways, now that he was rested enough to notice… and it was too late to act.

“It’s too early,” she grumbled softly into his chest.

“Too early for what?” he smiled.

“Everything,” she answered, snuggling closer as she spoke.

“True,” he replied. “Well… _almost_ true,” he amended. Are you completely sure it’s too early for _this_?” and he rolled her atop him, kissing her thoroughly.

Betty responded enthusiastically and for several long moments, Jughead lost all track of time. At last, regretfully, he pulled back slightly, pleased to note her slightly dazed expression.

“Not too early for that,” Betty agreed breathlessly. “ _Definitely_ not too early. In fact, I think the real issue here is that it’s a little too late to explore _that _topic as thoroughly as it deserves.”__

____

Jughead nodded regretfully. “I really, _really_ hate to say it… but you’re right. I’ve gotta get back into Archie’s room before Mary finds me missing; she’s dropping me off at South Side this morning before she heads over to the hospital.

____

Betty nodded; she’d heard the plan being formulated last night. “And tonight, you’re at the Fosters’,” she added, her voice glum as she focused on the consideration that was most on her mind.

____

“Yeah,” Jughead answered simply because, really, what was there to say?

____

“I _hate_ that you’re going to be so far away,” Betty said almost fiercely, “ _and_ that you’re going to that underfunded holding cell of a school. And I’m going to miss you like crazy at school today and back here tonight.

____

“But I’m not giving up on us, Jug. You were right: things _are_ changing for us… but things are always changing in life. So we’ll figure this out… and then we’ll keep figuring it out. And when something else changes, we’ll figure that out too. Because that’s how it works. And we _will_ work through it.”

____

Apparently, Jughead reflected, there was rather a lot to say after all. But at the moment, he couldn’t speak for the life of him. That little speech had encapsulated, so beautifully, many of the things he loved about Betty: her sweetness… her ferocity… not to mention the fact that she always, _always_ listened to what he had to say, as if it mattered to her, as if it had value. And so hearing his thoughts on the separation they were facing handed back to him, in her own voice, choked him with emotion. His chest was weighted with the intensity of his love for her… his sharp determination to make her words true, to make this work… and his aching sense of loss at this closure to the golden weeks they’d shared since that first afternoon he'd climbed through her window.

____

“We will,” he vowed as soon as he could master his voice. “Always.”

____

***

____

“He actually said ‘always’?” Veronica squealed, loudly enough to turn heads around the Riverdale High cafeteria. “As in, Severus Snape, Lily Evans ‘always’? _Swoon_!”

____

Betty couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the corners of her lips -– she’d nearly melted with the very same thought when Jughead whispered that word in those last, precious moments before he left -– even as she tried to temper Veronica’s (and her own) enthusiasm. “As in, the word, ‘always,’” she said, trying (and failing) to sound matter-of fact. “It’s actually a commonly used, dictionary word. It’s not like J.K. Rowling _invented_ it,” she disclaimed.

____

Veronica scoffed dismissively. “Right. Because Jughead is in _no way_ notorious for peppering his conversations with literary references, both obscure and mainstream.”

____

“Not to mention, you _know_ he read those books,” Kevin interjected.

____

“ _And_ you two read _that_ book together, the summer you both had chickenpox. _AND_ Jughead always identified with Severus Snape!” Veronica concluded triumphantly.

____

“ _How_ do you even _know_ that?” Betty demanded, momentarily diverted by her disbelief.

____

“Girl, please,” Veronica replied heavy on the attitude, “apart from a history of parental incarceration, the sum total of what Jughead and I have in common equals _you_. What _else_ are we going to talk about?”

____

Before Betty could even begin to assimilate that information, Kevin interjected again.

____

“And now you have your very own ‘always’ moment,” he said wistfully, before snapping back to his characteristic irreverence. “That does it! My next boyfriend has to be not only ‘out,’ but a writer. Or at least a reader. Or something. 

____

“You know," he continued, "Joaquin had that whole ‘bad boy’ Serpents vibe, but he was _woefully_ ill-equipped with quotable quotes.”

____

“Oh my God!” Betty gasped. “I haven’t even told you guys! The Serpents stopped by FP’s trailer Friday night… you know, after the Jubilee.” Veronica and Kevin nodded. “They brought a jacket for Juggie… and he accepted it. _Jughead_ ,” for once, she pronounced the nickname as her mother did, emphasizing both syllables, “is a South Side Serpent.”

____

“Oh. My. God,” Kevin breathed in awe as Veronica just looked stunned. “It’s the Triple Crown!”

____

Betty shook her head in confusion.

____

“The bad boy, the brooding writing, and the reason God invented nudity,” Kevin answered as if it should be obvious. “He’s either the Triple Crown or the unicorn. Beanie being what it is? Yeeeah, _I’m_ going with the Triple Crown.”

____

“Good call,” Veronica nodded.

____


	45. Chapter 45

### Chapter 45

Even the worst times in your life settled, eventually, into routines, Betty reflected late on Friday night. She visited Fred – conscious now, but not out of danger – in the mornings before school. She ate lunch with Veronica and Kevin, who’d made sure she wasn’t alone in the cafeteria all week, despite Jughead’s absence. She tried to keep up with her regular schedule of activities. 

Archie, meanwhile, was spending mornings at the hospital with his dad, and afternoons at school… at his mother’s insistence. Never an enthusiastic student, Archie seemed to have decided that, under the circumstances, school was a complete waste of his time. And, attending only for half days, he was struggling to keep up… or _would_ have been, if he’d been remotely interested in keeping up.

As it was, _Betty_ was the one who was struggling… struggling to tutor him into a grade that would allow him to pass sophomore year and stay on the football team… not that he seemed to care much about that, either.

But Betty cared, as did Mary, and the two of them had formed a sort of confederacy to keep Archie afloat until his own interest in football, if not academics, reemerged to motivate him.

It was time-consuming, thankless work. But –- Betty’s reflections took on a certain bitterness here –- she _did_ have the time for it. Jughead’s departure for the South Side had left as huge a void in her calendar as it had in her bed.

They stayed in touch, of course, firing off texts throughout the day, sharing their quick thoughts, feelings and events. And they talked on the phone every night, after homework was done and activities or events had wrapped up. But they hadn’t seen one another since Jughead climbed out of her window on Monday morning and, after weeks and weeks as almost-constant companions, it felt like far too little.

So the hours Betty had been accustomed to spending with Jughead –- hammering out stories in the _Blue and Gold_ office, or studying in their booth at Pop’s, or just talking… endlessly talking, on the Coopers’ porch or in the Andrews’ kitchen, or in the yard between the two properties –- were suddenly liberated. And, without Jughead’s reassuring presence in her bed, Betty’s nightmares had returned, bleak dreams in which Polly and her babies and the Blossom clan and Fred’s unknown shooter were mixed together in an inchoate, but terrifying, barrage of images. Quite apart from being lonely –- Jughead’s absence was a pain as physical and persistent as a toothache –- Betty was feeling tired and on-edge, running on too little sleep and too much anxiety.

So tutoring Archie, while hardly rewarding in light of his steadfast indifference, was at least a welcome distraction and time-filler.

Mindful of Veronica’s feelings -– of her apparent, though inexplicable, anxiety that Archie’s feelings for Betty ran deeper than his attachment to his newly minted girlfriend -– Betty had invited her to join them in their study sessions, but Veronica had unhesitatingly declined.

“Lodge women don’t ‘tutor,’” she’d said airily. “Nor do we bake, launder, or make late night deliveries of soup, just to be clear. If young Archibald Andrews needs someone to choose his outfit for an awards dinner, I’m there. If he needs someone to share the stage when he takes a Manhattan concert hall by storm, or to take him out dancing to blow off steam, any red-blooded Lodge woman will be pleased to oblige. But we don’t… _nest_. Mother always says, if you remind a man of _his_ mother, the romance is dead on arrival.

“Seriously, Betty,” she’d added with a mercurial shift to sincerity, “I do want to be there for Archie right now. But I think my relationship with him is… _different_ from yours. I’m never going to out-Betty the one and only Betty Cooper, so there’s no point even entering that arena. I have decided to put competition behind me and embrace whatever _my_ vibe is instead.”

“You mean the whole ‘sophisticated city girl who turns heads and breaks hearts at every turn’ vibe?” Betty remembered asking, with a grin. “I can’t blame you. Given the choice, I’d work that angle myself. Definitely more glamorous than ‘homework girl, who bakes.’” She _still_ didn’t think she’d sounded wistful or self-deprecating, but Veronica had looked slightly concerned as she’d answered.

“You’re a beautiful woman and a true-blue friend, Ms. Cooper. And even though I have no ambition to play Fanny Sullivan to Archie’s academic Helen Keller… it means a lot to me that you asked.”

And so it was alone that Betty and Archie had spent the past three hours at the Andrews’ kitchen table, slogging thanklessly through the assignments that had piled up throughout the week, despite Betty’s best efforts to get Archie to… make an effort. While they dominated the kitchen, Mary worked in the living room where she’d established a makeshift office to allow her to keep up with at least a portion of her work remotely.

And when they’d finished –- as finished as they were going to get tonight, at least –- Veronica had materialized at the back door and spirited Archie away to God-knew-where, to offer whatever form of comfort or recreation they’d decided the occasion required, leaving Betty to clear off the table and pack up her books.

“Good night, Mrs. Andrews,” she called before leaving.

“’Night, kiddo!” Mary called back.

Betty paused on the porch, breathing deeply of the cold air, before walking slowly towards the lights of her own house. Her eyes teared slightly at the sight of the ladder, still tilted against the garage where Jughead had left it after descending from her window Monday morning. It felt so long ago and, while they’d agreed to see each other on the weekend, they’d yet to make any concrete plans.

Acting on a sudden impulse, she pulled out her phone and texted him quickly.

“Can you come over?”

“Or can I come there?” her second message followed immediately after the first.

Within seconds, her phone rang, and her heart sank. If Jughead were coming, he’d have texted back with an ETA. A phone call translated to another night alone.

“Hi, Juggie,” she answered, trying to keep the disappointment out of her tone… knowing he probably heard it anyway.

“Hey there, Juliet.” His voice was warm and familiar and felt like a balm poured over the ache of his absence.

“No can do?” she asked softly. She could hear voices and what sounded like motorcycle engines on Jughead’s end of the line, but it seemed like he could hear her anyway.

“I’m sorry, Cooper,” he said, and she knew he meant it. “I have a… thing… with the Serpents tonight. Not to mention a curfew.”

“I understand,” Betty answered, biting her lip to hold back the tears.

“Really?” Jughead sounded skeptical. “Or are your hands bleeding while you tell me what you think I want to hear?”

“No blood,” Betty said with an almost-laugh, after glancing down quickly to make sure she spoke the truth. “I’m disappointed. And I miss you like crazy. But I _do_ understand.”

“Ahhh, Cooper,” Jughead’s voice in her ear throbbed with affection, “I miss you, too.”

They were silent a moment, just breathing together, before Jughead added, “Can we spend the day together tomorrow?”

“You don’t have homework?” Betty asked, even as her heart lifted.

“From South Side High?” Betty could practically hear Jughead’s lifted eyebrow. “They were about ready to hand me a diploma today, just for showing up five days in a row. The academic standards aren’t exactly taxing.”

“That’s so _unfair_ ,” Betty began indignantly, but Jughead cut her off.

“So, tomorrow?” he asked. “Or was that a hint that _you_ have homework?”

Betty snorted. “The only homework I have at this point is Archie’s,” she said dryly. “He’s got a mother, a girlfriend, and, presumably, an intact set of balls, if not brains. He can figure it out himself for one day.

Jughead was laughing… laughing immoderately. He was laughing far harder, in fact, than she’d heard him laugh since about the third grade. He was usually more of a sardonic half-smile kind of guy. But at the moment, he sounded at risk of doing himself an injury.

“I seriously didn’t think it was possible for me to love you more, Betty Cooper,” he said when he could master his voice, “but hearing you say ‘balls’ did it!”

“Promise me that won’t be your toast at our wedding,” Betty teased, unable to resist laughing herself.

“I’ll go you one better,” Jughead replied. “I promise it _will_. Your mom’ll _love_ it.”

“Perfect,” Betty said. And right at that moment? It was.


	46. Chapter 46

### Chapter 46

It was barely nine o’clock when Jughead arrived at FP’s trailer Saturday morning, Bruce Foster dropping him off on his way to an extra shift at work.

“Looks like you’re late,” Bruce observed as he approached the driveway.

“What? No way…” Jughead said, but he could see that Betty had, indeed, arrived ahead of him. At least, he had to _assume_ it was Betty, although the raised hood of FP’s truck obscured his view of her face as she bent to do something... mechanical looking.

“She gonna do any damage in there?” Bruce asked warily.

“Betty?” Jughead snorted. “Give her an hour, she’ll have it running better than it did when Dad bought it. Give her a _day_ , it’ll be running better than when it was new. She knows more about cars than half the mechanics who’ve worked over at Mr. Anderson’s garage in the past 10 years. And I _know_ this because Mr. Anderson told me so at the Jubilee last week.” Jughead suspected Mr. Anderson’s fondness for Betty had a lot to do with the old man’s friendliness to him at the Jubilee. Most of Riverdale had seemed to somehow glance through him until he and Betty had left for Pop’s with their friends.

Bruce was chuckling now. “That girl of yours is just full of surprises, isn’t she?”

“That she is, Bruce,” Jughead replied. “That she is.”

“You remember to invite her back to the house for supper tonight,” Bruce reminded him. “Seems like she’s worth getting’ to know.”

“She sure is,” Jughead answered softly as he stepped out of the car. “I’ll remember.

“Have a good day at work,” he added as he turned to close the car door.

Bruce waved to show he’d heard him, then rolled down his window. “Looks like you’ll have a better one,” he called before pulling away.

Jughead was smiling as he turned to greet Betty, and his smile widened at the sight of her. She was wearing a baggy pair of denim overalls he remembered from as far back as seventh grade, now faded and stained with what looked like several automotive projects’ worth of grease. She had a black smear on one cheek, and as he grinned at her, she rubbed quickly at her face as if trying to remove any dirt… thereby managing to add several more smudges from her less-than-pristine hands.

“When you suggested meeting here, I have to admit this isn’t _quite_ what I had in mind,” he teased.

Betty moved to kiss him, only to hesitate, glancing guiltily at her filthy hands before sticking them behind her back, as if to hide them.

“The hell with that,” Jughead said, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her close. “There’s not a thing in my wardrobe that wouldn’t be _immeasurably_ improved by a pattern of your fingerprints in engine grease.”

Betty laughed, but took him at his word, bringing her hands to his neck, letting her fingers sift gently through the hair at his nape while her body melted into his. By the time she pulled back, they were both breathing heavily, Betty’s lips swollen and glossy from his kisses. From the laughter dancing in her eyes as she gazed back at him, he deduced that he was now as greased-smeared as she was.

“I do feel compelled to point out that, while the idea of ‘getting dirty with you’ has undeniable appeal, this is taking it a bit more literally that I would tend to suggest,” he told her mock-seriously.

“O-o-o-h…” Betty dragged the syllable out. “So inviting me here _wasn’t_ a diabolical plot to get free automotive maintenance? Damn! I totally misread _that_ social cue.”

Jughead laughed with her. “Hey, meeting here was your idea,” he reminded her, “although I’d sort of hoped your agenda involved more ‘picking up where we were interrupted last weekend,’ and less… ummm… what _are_ you doing, exactly?”

“I wanted to fix the ignition timing,” Betty answered. “I thought I’d just be able to rotate the distributor, but one thing led to another and I ended up breaking down most of the engine to get to the head gasket…” she trailed off at the expression on his face. Obviously interpreting his blank stare correctly, she simplified. “The truck was hard to start when we took it to the hospital the other day. And it was pinging when we went uphill, or accelerated. I thought it would be an easy fix, but it’s been a little more complicated than I expected.”

Jughead nodded appreciatively, then looked with puzzlement at the relatively intact truck. “It doesn’t look that bad,” he observed.

“I’ve almost finished,” Betty explained, wiping her hands on a rag, but clearly itching to get back to the work he’d interrupted. He’d always loved watching her work on cars… especially when her father wasn’t around to eye him suspiciously. The way she lost herself in her work… her confidence in diagnosing and fixing issues… it was all strangely compelling, for all that cars had never held more than a passing attraction to him. “Give me twenty minutes, and…”

“Almost finished?” Jughead repeated incredulously, losing his earlier train of thought. “As in, you’ve already ‘broken down’ the engine, given head to the gas or… whatever you were doing… and rebuilt most of it?” Betty nodded sheepishly. “How long have you _been_ here?” he asked her.

“A while,” Betty admitted, not quite meeting his gaze.

“’A while,’” Jughead repeated.

Betty nodded, but he could see her focus sliding away from him as her hands moved swiftly, surely to do… _something_ under that hood.

“Fine,” he responded evenly. He’d pursue this query once she’d finished. “How can I help?”

“Give me 20 minutes to finish?” Betty suggested, already leaning back under the hood. He could tell she knew the discussion wasn’t over, but was going to finish the job at hand. “And maybe see if there’s anything to eat left in the trailer? I am getting kind of hungry,” she added.

“As you wish,” Jughead said simply, and headed inside.

***

“ _Why_ did I not know you could make pancakes like this, Juggie?” Betty demanded, just before beginning to eat her way through her second stack.

“Really?” Jughead challenged sardonically. “ _You_ rebuild my dad’s engine before nine thirty in the morning, and my _pancakes_ are the big revelation?

“I like to eat,” he continued simply. “At my house, that’s always demanded self-service. And pancakes are cheap, filling, and easily made from the stuff that’s usually left in the cupboard with the money runs out before the month does. So I’ve made a lot of them. What time did you get here?”

Betty blinked, clearly unprepared for his direct approach. “A while ago,” she said vaguely. Jughead stayed silent, biding his time and waiting for the quiet to break her resistance. “And I didn’t technically rebuild FP’s engine, either. It was a pretty small fix; I just had to get a lot of stuff out of the way to get to it. And then I… put it all back. Still, Jughead waited. At last, Betty sighed and answered him. “A little before five.”

“Five… in the morning?” Jughead repeated, keeping his tone carefully neutral. Betty nodded confirmation, not quite meeting his eyes. “On a Saturday,” he added, stating the obvious. Betty nodded again, now staring at her plate. Obviously sensing a follow-up question in the offing, Betty cut a chunk of her stack of pancakes and filled her mouth full enough to preclude speech.

“So you… what?” Jughead asked. “Set your alarm for the wee hours of the morning, in order to get a jump start on repairing my dad’s truck? Which, I might point out, he’s essentially guaranteed not to need today, since he’ll be a little busy _serving time_.”

“I was up,” Betty said.

“Because?” Jughead prompted. The more she withdrew and avoided his questions, the more concerned he was becoming.

Betty sighed and her shoulders sagged in defeat. “Because I had a bad dream, Jug. Again. It happens sometimes… to everyone.”

“Again,” Jughead repeated the word that mattered to him in what she’d just said. “Again, as in ‘as you did that first night you invited me to your room,’ or…” he trailed off suggestively.

“That… and last night… and the night before…” Finally, _finally_ she met his gaze directly, and he read the truth in her clear blue eyes, in the bruised-looking shadows beneath them. “I haven’t been sleeping so well this week,” she said. “Since you… you know, _moved_.”

“You never said anything,” Jughead accused. “We’ve talked every single night, and you haven’t said a _word_ about this!”

“What were you going to do, Jug?” Betty asked. “Run through the streets every night to come tell me my dreams aren’t real? Or would you rather tell the Fosters and that social services lady that you can’t go into foster care because your girlfriend is too much of a head case to sleep by herself? I’m sure that would convince them to send you _right_ back to Archie’s bedroom floor.” Her words were sarcastic, even harsh, but Jughead could see the bleakness in her eyes… right behind the sheen of tears. “You can’t just scale the tower and rescue me from my own mind every time it gets freaky on me, Jug. _And_ I knew if I said anything, you’d look at me like _that_.”

“Like what?” Jughead asked defensively.

“Like you’re sad or guilty or somehow letting me down. And you’re not, Juggie. You’re officially _not_. It’s not your fault that my head’s all messy. And it’s not your fault that social services moved you across town. And, while I love that you care, I _hate_ that you feel like you have to… fix me or something.”

Jughead snorted with laughter. He couldn’t have helped it, even if he’d tried, but when he saw surprise replacing the haunted look in Betty’s eyes, he was glad he hadn’t suppressed the urge.

“Yes, Elizabeth,” he said pedantically. “I’m sure that when the people of Riverdale see us together, they say ‘there goes that exemplary Jones boy, trying to fix that damaged young Cooper girl.’ After all, homeless, weirdo gang members are notoriously sought after in that capacity.”

“You’re not homeless _or_ weird, Jughead,” Betty said seriously. And... 

“And _you_ don't need any 'fixing,'" Jughead interrupted. "Look, I _am_ sad that I’m not there for you at night, Betty. Not because I think you need me to rescue you, or repair you; I love the broken bits, remember? I’m not trying to slay your demons or fight back your darkness… I just wish I could be there to hold you while you fight those battles yourself.”

Betty smiled radiantly at him, seeming to relax for the first time since she’d put away her tools and come inside. “You always know the right thing to say,” she commented.

But Jughead’s answering smile froze on his face as another thought occurred to him. “Wait… who drove you over here at five a.m. on a Saturday?” he asked, although a part of him already knew the answer.

And –- great -– Betty was back to blushing and avoiding his gaze.

“Betts,” he added in a warning tone.

“I walked, okay?” she said, half-defiantly. “Well… jogged, really,” she amended.

“You jogged,” Jughead repeated, his voice rising dangerously, “at… no, excuse me… _before_ five o’clock on a winter morning… in the dark… for… what? Two and a half miles? _Alone_?”

“It’s Riverdale, Jug,” Betty temporized. “It’s not like I was running naked through the ‘mean streets’!”

“Jason Blossom was killed and Fred was _shot_!” Jughead exploded. “Is that ‘mean’ enough for you? And that was in the _good_ part of town, Betty. This is the south side…”

“It’s on the border,” Betty disputed.

“Betty, _I_ don’t go out alone at night here, and I _live_ here. I have the Fosters and the Serpents; I have a _family_ here. You…”

“I’m fine, Jughead,” Betty soothed.

“This time,” he answered tersely.

“How often do you figure I’ll be swinging by to repair FP’s truck?” Betty argued reasonably.

“How often do you figure you’ll be wide awake and sweating, choking on your own terror at four in the morning, and desperate for something to do to keep the darkness at bay?” Jughead countered.

Betty’s mouth shut with a snap. She couldn’t have looked more stunned if he had slapped her.

Jughead squirmed under that gaze. She looked so hurt, the urge to backpedal, to soften his words, was almost overwhelming. He fought it down, though. If Betty wasn’t sleeping, he knew her well enough to know she’d be looking for projects to fill those midnight hours. A week on the south side had given him a whole new perspective on just how dangerous the streets could be once the sun went down. And Riverdale itself had proven more dangerous in these past months than he’d dreamed possible. He was deadly serious about making sure she didn’t take such a risk again.

Betty seemed to realize that, too. As she searched his face, the wounded look went out of hers, replaced by a look of wonderment. “You’re worried about me,” she realized.

“Well, _duh_!” Jughead said, prompting a laugh with his pitch-perfect imitation of Archie’s favourite expression from the summer they were eleven. “I love you, you idiot!”

Betty laughed, her own, natural laugh, for the first time all morning. “You have the soul of a poet, Jug,” she told him.

“Damn straight,” he answered. “And _you_ have the aroma of a trucker."

"A _trucker_?" Betty asked, incredulously but delightedly.

“ _Definitely_ a trucker," Jughead replied. "You hit the shower, Cooper, and I’ll clean up here.”


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am miles behind on answering your amazing comments. I will catch up with responses to each of you, but in the meanwhile, I just want to say a huge "thank you" to everyone who has read, commented, or left kudos. I am blown away by your kindness, and deeply appreciate it.
> 
> As a quick note, we're within a heartbeat of _Riverdale_ returning to TV for the Season 2 we've been waiting for. I am beyond excited! But I am also realizing there's no way I'm going to be able to finish the story I'm working on in this fic before Season 2 premieres. You know I'll be watching faithfully... and I'll probably post some one-shots or something to add the conversations and moments that I feel the season needs... but I won't be trying to write this piece back into canon compliance. So this fic will continue its trajectory without reference to season 2 incidents, and I'll just deal with season 2 elsewhere.
> 
> Thank you again!

### Chapter 47

The tiny kitchen was immaculate when Betty emerged from her shower, swathed in the same, threadbare sweats she’d borrowed after homecoming. She’d towel-dried her hair, but hadn’t bothered to pull it back into the smooth ponytail her mother had insisted on for everyday wear since Betty was a little girl.

The loose hair, the comfortable clothing, the cozy feeling of being well-fed through someone else’s efforts… It all merged with the glow of satisfaction after a morning spent working on the truck and filled Betty with a sense of well-being, of bone-deep contentment. She felt… happy… relaxed and at peace in a way she’d rarely experienced in her lifetime of constant striving, and had never even approached except in Jughead’s company. She felt like someone different, happier… someone without an overbearing mother and a crescent pattern of scars in her palms, someone who could make a quiet, contented life in this little trailer on the town’s outer edge of respectability with a boyfriend who loved her uncritically and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about them.

Jughead was sprawled on the couch, reading a well-thumbed copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ , but he looked up as she entered the room and smiled lazily at her, making her heart flip inside her chest. The glow in his eyes as he looked at her made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world… baggy, grey sweats, makeup-free face and wet, tangled hair notwithstanding.

“You’re a man of many talents,” she told him with a nod towards the spotless kitchen, mostly to keep herself from melting -– or bursting into flames -– under his gaze.

“Well, buckle up, Cooper,” he drawled, “because you’ve barely scratched the surface.

Betty chuckled, surprised to hear how low and throaty her own laughter sounded. “That sounds… promising,” she said, gratified to see Jughead’s eyes darken immediately in response to her tone.

His gaze dropped to her lips, then returned to her eyes, and she could practically taste his intent to kiss her. It was as if the past week had never happened… as if they were back in that golden morning before Archie’s call had changed everything. The week of separation, the domesticity at breakfast this morning, the tension over her failure to tell Jughead about the struggles she’d been facing alone since he’d moved... those had all disappeared as thoroughly as if they had never been. In their place, the unaccustomed peace she’d already noticed had suddenly been augmented by an electric crackle of excitement.

Holding Jughead’s gaze, she strolled towards him, more slowly than she normally would have. She should have felt ridiculous or, at the very least, unsure. But the look on Jughead’s face –- the heat, the hope, the pure adoration –- made it impossible to feel anything but gorgeous… seductive… powerful.

When she reached the couch, Betty didn’t hesitate, but lowered herself directly onto Jughead’s body, tangling her legs with his, reveling in the feeling of his arms wrapped around her as she lowered her head to take his mouth with hers.

He tasted like coffee and pancakes, his lips warm and familiar beneath hers. But this was no sweet, tentative kiss… no gentle exploration. This was hungry, raw… she didn’t just _kiss_ Jughead; she practically _inhaled_ him. And he matched her, hunger for hunger, heat for heat, his hands grasping her to him firmly, desperately, as she caught his lower lip between her teeth, then released it and slanted her head, licking her way into his mouth without a shred of shyness.

In some dim corner of her mind, she was shocked at her own boldness, her fearlessness. She’d never been so assertive before, never taken the lead like this. She’d always met Jughead’s passion with an honest expression of her own. But she’d always been responsive, reactive, following _his_ lead.

Not this morning.

Now, she was firmly in charge, and she gloried in it. Fisting her hands in Jughead’s hair, she tipped his head back, bending to lave beneath his ear, kissing and sucking his neck and delighting to hear his moan.

If Jughead was surprised by her sudden initiative, he didn’t show it… or at the very least, he certainly wasn’t complaining. On the contrary, she could feel his pulse thundering beneath her lips at his throat, could feel the beat of his blood echoed in her own body.

Meanwhile, his hands were everywhere, molding her body, tracing its curves, pulling her closer, always closer, as if he couldn’t possibly get enough, yet never trying to wrest control from her. Indeed, he seemed as thrilled by her dominance as she was herself.

Pushing herself upright, Betty pulled off the tattered, old hoodie she was wearing, glorying in Jughead’s groan as he saw that she hadn’t put on a bra after her shower. Before she could move, he surged upwards, taking her nipple in his mouth and drawing an ecstatic cry from her. He twisted, shifted somehow, and then he was sitting on the couch with Betty astride him, their moans blending as he continued to drive her wild with his mouth on her body.

“Juggie,” Betty gasped on a husky moan. “I want…”

“Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom.” Stewie Griffin’s unmistakable voice interrupted them yet again, and they both froze before Jughead let his head fall back against the couch in a gesture of utter defeat.

“This is a joke, right?” he said, his voice breathless and rough. “There’s a hidden camera somewhere, and someone’s just _trying_ to hurt me.”

“Ignore it,” Betty gasped, lacing her fingers behind his neck and drawing him back to her kiss. Jughead returned it enthusiastically, but broke away again, reluctantly, as Stewie continued to demand attention.

“This could be important,” he pointed out, his voice still raspy with desire. “Archie _never_ calls you. What if Fred’s better… or worse?”

Betty groaned in frustration. “I hate it when you’re right,” she grumbled as she leaned backwards, without ever lifting off of Jughead’s lap, to fumble in the backpack she’d left on the coffee table.

“Arch, what’s up,” she asked as she found her phone.

“Good morning to you, too,” Archie said, his voice teasing.

“Is everything okay?” she asked him, her focus on Jughead whose eyes were fixed, perhaps inevitably, on her breasts. His gaze didn’t make her self-conscious, though. In fact, she felt a ripple of feminine pride at his obvious fascination, and tucked her phone between her shoulder and her ear, in order to stretch her hands high above her head, thrusting her breasts upward and cherishing Jughead’s low, responsive moan.

“Everything’s fine,” Archie answered, sounding surprised. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Was he serious? 

“I dunno, Arch,” Betty said dryly. “This is the second time you’ve phoned me in, probably the past six months. And on that last occasion, you were calling to tell me your dad had been shot. Call me a drama queen, but phone calls from you will probably raise red flags for me for… oh, another 50 or 75 years.”

“Everything’s fine,” she mouthed silently to Jughead, who looked relieved, even as he continued to devour her with his eyes.

“I am _so_ sorry,” Archie sounded genuinely contrite. “It never occurred to me that you would think…”

“So you’re okay?” Betty interrupted him, “and Fred’s okay?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Archie reassured her over the phone. “I mean, Dad’s not ‘fine,’ but he’s not worse and…”

“I get it,” Betty interrupted again. She loved Archie like a brother, but she was _so_ not in the mood for small talk right now. “So what do you need?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Archie answered, now sounding slightly annoyed. “I just wanted to see if you wanted to come over for breakfast. My mom’s making pancakes and I thought we could… you know… hang out. We never hang out anymore.”

Betty blinked, once, in disbelief. “We never…” she repeated incredulously. “Archie, I was at your house for three hours last night… and for almost two hours the night before last… and the night before that…”

By now, Jughead was looking at her curiously, clearly wondering about the topic of conversation.

“That’s studying,” Archie scoffed. “That’s not _hanging out_!”

Betty decidedly did _not_ feel like arguing the point at the moment, but before she could answer, he continued.

“You know you always loved my mom’s pancakes,” he wheedled. “C’mon over.”

“I’ve, um, already eaten,” Betty said, then rolled her eyes and shrugged helplessly as Jughead mouthed “eaten?” silently back to her.

“Then come over for coffee,” Archie persisted.

“I’m actually not home right now, Arch,” Betty told him.

“It’s not even 10:30 yet!” Archie answered incredulously. “Where are you?”

Betty found herself bristling at his tone. “I’m spending the day with Jughead,” she said with some asperity. “We had breakfast together and were… ummm… just deciding what to do next.” Jughead waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her, and she punched him in the shoulder.

“So you’re at Pop’s?” Archie said. “I could meet you guys there in…”

“No, we’re not at Pop’s, Arch,” Betty said. This conversation was getting seriously weird. “Jughead… umm… made me breakfast. We haven’t seen each other all week, so we were sort of looking forward to… catching up.”

“Oh,” Archie’s tone was flat and Betty felt inexplicably guilty.

“But it would be really great to get together,” Betty hastened to add. “I know Jughead would love to see you, too.” Jughead was, in fact, staring at her in apparent horror at that moment, and she shrugged helplessly at him. “Why don’t you and Veronica meet us for lunch at Pop’s… _tomorrow_?”

“Thank you,” Jughead whispered inaudibly.

“Mom’s making Sunday dinner for my grandparents after church tomorrow,” Archie answered.

“Supper then,” Betty answered brightly. “Whatever time you say. My mom or dad will take me to pick up Jughead, and drop us off at Pop’s to meet you.”

“Yeah. Right,” Archie said tersely. “Sounds great.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

Betty looked at her phone for a full minute in disbelief before setting it aside.

“No one dead or dying?” Jughead asked her, even though he’d clearly picked up on the non-urgent nature of the call.

Betty shook her head. “That was… weird. Jug, does it occur to you that _Archie_ has been weird lately?”

“Hey, I’ve _always_ thought Archie was weird,” Jughead replied, prompting a half smile. “But I really haven’t seen him since Monday morning,” he added. “Yeah, he was slightly weird then, but I figure you get a free pass on a bit of 'weird' for at least 48 hours after a close family member gets shot.”

“Fair enough,” Betty acknowledged. “But… I’m worried about him. It’s not just since the shooting. He’s been…” she trailed off for a moment and just stared into space before shaking herself and returning to the conversation. “I don’t think he’s happy,” she concluded finally. “And he seems kind of… I don’t know. Angry? Frantic?”

She turned back to Jughead, only to find him staring, as if mesmerized, at her breasts which, she realized suddenly, were still bare. “Oh my God!” she gasped, moving awkwardly to cover herself, but Jughead laid a hand gently over hers to still its movement.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his eyes intense, “please?”

Betty flushed, but dropped her hands. “It seemed like such a great idea in the heat of the moment,” she said apologetically. “You know… taking my shirt off. But then I got distracted and now… it’s pretty damned embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Jughead repeated softly. “Betty, you have nothing, ever, to be embarrassed about. It’s like suggesting the Venus de Milo needs to feel embarrassed… You are a work of art… one of God’s own masterpieces, and it’s my privilege to be admitted to a private viewing, even briefly.

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, and I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do… ever. If you want to put your shirt back on, then that’s what I want to.

“But before you do, please just let me tell you that you are… _breathtaking_... glorious. And that if you’re getting dressed again right now, I am still nothing but grateful that you let me see you this way, even for a little while.”

Betty could feel the flush in her cheeks, in her chest… could tell that she was rosy all over, in fact. But it wasn’t embarrassment that was tinging her pink now. It was pleasure at Jughead’s impossibly sweet words… and it was desire, renewed again as his words took away her shame and restored the mood Archie’s call had so rudely shattered.

“Maybe… we skip the sweater,” she said huskily.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Fair warning:** This has been a fairly chaste little fic thus far, but that changes here. There is no more tip-toeing around the border of a "mature" rating. This chapter is very definitely "mature" category... basically, straight-up smut.
> 
> If that's not cool with you, you may want to sit out the next couple of chapters. There _is_ is more actual story (in which people wear pants and have conversations!) to come.
> 
> If smut _is_ cool with you (and age-appropriate _for_ you)... enjoy! And do let me know what you think, please. This "warmer" stuff is still pretty new territory for me.

### Chapter 48

In a corner of her mind that was dedicated to analysis –- endless, inevitable analysis -– Betty registered that it was gratifying to see Jughead’s physical response to her words. His eyes darkened even as his breath hitched, and his body hardened still further beneath her. He’d meant what he’d said, she knew. If she’d wanted to call a halt, put her shirt back on, go for a walk or watch a movie together… Jughead would have been okay with it… even grateful for the time they’d shared so far.

But his relief that that _wasn’t_ what she wanted… the desperation with which he wanted this… wanted _her_ … was palpable. And _that_ was an incredible turn-on, fanning the flames of her own desire.

As if Archie’s interruption had never happened, Jughead surged again to take her mouth with his, as his hands gripped her hips, still straddling him, and she pressed herself more fully against him, feeling his hardness through his jeans and the thin cotton of her battered, borrowed sweats. His kisses were exciting, intoxicating, and his hands coaxed her hips into a rhythm that she soon took over, rocking on him and against him as if dancing to the beat of the blood in her veins.

She whimpered in protest when Jughead broke their kiss, only to gasp in pleasure as he transferred his mouth to her breast, kissing and licking and sucking at her hyper-sensitive flesh until all thought, all analysis fled, swept away by the flames of sensation that were rioting out from the point where Jughead’s mouth was working on her, crackling along her nerve endings and setting her whole body alight.

“Oh, _God_ , Juggie!” she gasped, head thrown back as she reveled in the brief respite from the endless, droning chatter of her own brain, the sudden ascendancy of physical pleasure over all analysis. A moment later, though, she was moaning in protest as he pulled back from her slightly.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if I do anything you don’t like,” Jughead demanded in a raw whisper.

“I don’t like when you stop,” Betty responded, lacing her fingers together behind his head and pulling him almost roughly back to her body.

As if unable to resist, Jughead returned to her breasts, sucking and laving and eliciting a joyful sob from Betty before pulling himself away again.

“I’m serious, Betts,” he gasped.

“So’m I,” she cut him off, but Jughead would not be silenced.

“I have exactly _zero_ experience in reading cues in this kind of situation, Betty,” he persisted, “and I am so turned on, I am ready to explode right now. But I would _rather_ explode –- noisily and painfully –- than hurt you in any way, or push you beyond what’s okay with you.”

“Jughead,” Betty breathed, torn between frustration and adoration, “Don’t. Stop. That’s the only, _only_ rule right now. You want consent? This is it. Take this as my blanket ‘yes’ for absolutely _anything_ we can think of to do together right now.

“I am saying ‘no’ to answering the phone and ‘no’ to answering the door and ‘no’ to stopping in any way, shape or form.

“And that’s it. For absolutely anything else, I say ‘game on.’ I don’t know how to do this either, but I _do_ know that I want it, _now_ and with _you_ and so desperately that I may just spontaneously combust if we have to talk about this anymore.

“So, please, Juggie?” she begged. “Don’t stop?”

She could never explain, afterwards, how it happened. One moment, she was kneeling over Jughead, pleading with him to trust her to know her own limits… to accept the gift of herself she was offering… to give himself to her just as fully… to want her as completely as she wanted him.

And the next? The next moment, she was on her back on the couch, her pants gone, her body writhing helplessly as Jughead’s mouth explored her, caressed her, consumed her… everywhere. Thought, language, reason all fled beneath the onslaught of sensation… the heat of Jughead’s mouth, alternating with the chill of the room as he moved over her… the shivers of pleasure that rippled through her from each point of contact… the rasp of the air in her lungs as she gasped for breath… the satin of Jughead’s skin and the fine silk of his hair beneath her fingertips as she ran her hands possessively over every inch of him that she could reach, with no goal in mind but to gift him with some measure of the pleasure she was experiencing.

When she noticed him traveling lower, though, trailing his kisses down her belly and across her hip bone, Betty shifted uncomfortably.

“Jughead, I don’t think…” she began, then cried aloud as his mouth settled at the apex of her thighs, pressing kisses to her swollen heat. At any other time, she’d have been embarrassed -– mortified, in fact –- at making such a sound, so raw and needy and completely unlike the Betty Cooper that Riverdale knew. But right now, she barely heard herself, too caught up in the storm that was swirling inside her as Jughead stroked her most sensitive places with his tongue and his lips.

She understood the theory of what he was doing, of course. She’d completed sex education at Riverdale High… carried out her own research… wondered about this very activity –- how would it feel? would she like it? –- during sleepless hours in her bed late at night.

But _nothing_ –- no amount of research or imagination –- could have prepared her for the reality of Jughead’s mouth on her needy flesh, the gentle, tentative explorations of his tongue, the sweet suction that seemed to draw her soul right out of her body with the exquisite pull of his lips against her, the way he heard and interpreted her responses, giving her exactly what she was learning she liked best, gaining confidence as her reaction assured him of her approval.

Her questions were being answered rapidly.

Yes, she liked this.

And it felt like the physical embodiment of joy.

The sensations in her body were shocking overwhelming, and yet it was so much _more_ than just the physical.

It was the closeness… the shared discovery… the deep awareness that this was _Jughead_ who was touching her… tasting her… coaxing her body higher and higher on a spiraling coil of exquisite tension.

And when she shattered, feeling herself explode in a shower of stars, it was Jughead’s name that she heard her own voice calling, through ears that seemed a million miles away.


	49. Chapter 49

### Chapter 49

Jughead didn’t consider himself particularly macho; he wasn’t a typical alpha male, didn’t identify with the Neanderthals on the football team or even with Archie’s gleaming, golden-boy charm. But as he looked down at Betty, lying boneless and sated beneath him on FP’s old couch, he felt a surge of pure, male satisfaction that at least allowed him to understand what might underpin a primitive impulse to beat one’s chest… coupled with a near-obsessive urge to do that again… and again, for as long as she’d let him.

He could cancel the dinner with the Fosters; how many more hours would that buy him to explore Betty’s body with his mouth, to watch her come undone, to hear her make those incredible little sounds of pleasure that had nearly made him spend in his pants? There were many things his body was screaming for at this moment, but the most compelling was to go back to the beginning and repeat that whole crescendo of desire and fulfillment.

But, as Betty gradually opened her eyes and smiled at him, she made it abundantly clear that she had other priorities.

“You’re too far away,” she grumbled, her lazy smile belying her somewhat critical words.

“I just wanted to… give you some space,” Jughead answered.

“That’s sweet,” Betty said softly, “but no thank you.” He couldn’t help but grin as she slid her hands into his hair again and drew him down, gently this time, to kiss her.

“Do you, um… want me to brush my teeth?” he asked uncertainly, pulling back as it suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea of the etiquette in this situation.

“Did you… mind how I tasted?” Betty asked in return, her eyes suddenly worried.

“God, no!” he exclaimed.

“Then why should I?” she asked reasonably, apparently reassured. And then reason fled as she pulled him down and kissed him even more deeply, her tongue stroking every inch of his mouth as though determined to lap up every vestige of her own taste.

He had no idea what had gotten into her this morning, where she’d found the hunger and the boldness she was displaying, but it was hard to worry too much about the details with Betty’s tongue in his mouth, her breasts in his hands, her soft sounds of excitement and approval filling his ears, mingling with the urgent thrum of his own blood.

He was still slightly stunned by what had already happened between them, by the sweet spice of her nectar on his lips, by the surge of heat and possession and pleasure that had nearly unmanned him as she came apart beneath him just moments ago.

But it was hard to dwell too much on the past –- even the recent past -– when this present moment was so very intoxicating.

Betty’s hands were fisted almost painfully in his hair, compelling his kisses again with a power and command that further inflamed him. Her mouth was bold, greedy on his. And, while he was still fully clothed, she was naked beneath him, her skin pink and fragrant from her shower and so beautiful he wanted to weep. Her legs were locked around his hips now, her own hips bucking up to press herself intimately against the denim of his jeans.

He heard himself groan again, almost a growl, when she broke their kiss unexpectedly and licked him from the hollow between his collar bones to his ear, sucking the lobe gently as she worried it between her teeth. Her hands were urgent now, first pushing his shirt up and over his head as she kissed and licked his nipples, then gripping his hips, pressing his body into hers, then pushing him back to fumble with his zipper, slipping her hands inside his faded jeans to free him from his clothing. When her fingers found him, sliding under the waistband of his boxers to wrap themselves around his hard length, skin to skin, Jughead made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a sob.

“Betty,” he panted, struggling to gather his wits enough for speech, “I can’t…” He groaned again, and Betty’s hand stilled, her eyes on his suddenly uncertain. “I don’t want this to be over yet,” he managed, as her hesitancy made her draw her hand back, “and if you keep touching me like that, it will be. Pretty much immediately.”

Betty’s hesitancy disappeared, and she grinned at him delightedly. “You _liked_ that,” she realized.

Jughead snorted. Had that really been in question? But this was Betty, who inexplicably never quite seemed to realize how amazing she really was, so he gave her the reassurance he couldn’t quite believe she needed. “Way too much,” he confirmed.

Her smile became positively radiant, transcendent, and he couldn’t help smiling back at her.

Until she asked a fatal question.

“Do you have a condom?”

And all at once, Jughead wasn’t smiling at all. “I don’t,” he answered hollowly, heavily. “I’m so, so sorry, Betts. I never thought… never even _dreamed_ … I mean, I dreamed, _obviously_. I’ve been dreaming about you, just like this, for damn near _ever_. But I didn’t prepare…”

“Shhhh,” Betty soothed, her fingers on his lips, her eyes amused and aroused and loving. “It’s okay, Juggie. I dreamed, too. And I _did_ prepare.” She struggled into a half-sitting position and fumbled in the front pocket of her backpack, still atop the coffee table. A moment later, she pulled out a strip of foil-wrapped packets with a flourish, and Jughead could have sworn he heard a chorus of angels singing.

“Are you sure…” he began, even as his body howled at his brain to shut _up_ , to take what she was offering with no more discussion.

“Am I sure of what?” she asked him. “Am I sure that I love you? Or that I want to make love to you? We’ve covered this already, Jughead,” she said with mild exasperation. “The answer is ‘yes,’ no matter what the question is.

“This isn’t just a whim or an impulse, you know. I’ve been carrying these condoms around for almost three weeks, just trying to find the courage to bring it up. And yeah, I’m nervous – I’m pretty sure you already know I’m a virgin, and I’m terrified I’ll do something wrong… that I won’t be good at this. But I’m not going to let that stand in the way of what I really want.

“And that’s you, Juggie. God, I love you _so_ much and I want you so badly… And I _know_ you. I know that, even if I’m bad -– _terrible_ -– at it, you won’t laugh at me or shame me or think less of me, even in secret. I know you’ll give me time to learn and to figure it out.

“And that’s what I want. _You’re_ what I want… everything that I want.”

“Betty,” Jughead managed to pronounce, but then had to pause as emotion closed his throat. He struggled a moment, not even resisting the tears in his eyes at her achingly sweet words.

“Me too,” he managed at last. “All of it. I don’t know any more about this than you do. Hell, knowing your research skills, I probably know a lot _less_. And I’m scared to death of messing this up. And I hate the idea of hurting you, even just a little bit, but I don’t know how to prevent it.

“But I love you, and I trust you, and I want you to an extreme that may be unhealthy. So, if this is really what you want… well, as a gorgeous and sexy woman recently said to me, ‘game on.’”

Without a word, Betty grabbed her cell phone and turned it off. Her message was clear. No more interruptions or delays would be tolerated.

Jughead wasn’t even sure where _his_ phone was; once he was with Betty, there was no one else he cared to hear from anyway. But he glanced at the door to ensure it was dead bolted. Archie and Alice and the Serpents and his father… they were all on their own. In this moment, right here and now, he and Betty were the only two people in the world who mattered.

Betty tore a packet off the end of the strip and opened it while Jughead hurried to shed his clothing, his beanie joining his jeans and boxers and flannel shirt somewhere on the living room floor.

Putting the condom on should have felt awkward. He and Betty fumbled, first dropping the slippery disc of lubricated latex, and then finding it too covered in lint and detritus from the cracks of the couch to use. The second condom, Jughead tore in his efforts to unroll it -– inside out, as it transpired –- forcing them to open a third packet within moments of the first.

But it was _Betty_ who was doing this with him, breathless with laughter as they struggled with the thin sheaths. And, when the third package was opened, it was Betty’s hands that gripped him, carefully rolling the latex into place, pausing every few seconds to make sure she wasn’t hurting him. (She _so_ wasn’t, Jughead acknowledged privately as he resorted to replaying the video of Jason Blossom’s murder in his own mind, just to keep from filling this third condom before Betty finished putting it on him) And it was Betty’s sweet, blue eyes that kept searching his seriously, seeking reassurance that what she was doing met with his approval.

And so it wasn’t awkward at all. It was glorious, heavenly… and over far too soon as Betty’s careful fingers rolled the protection to his base. She grinned at him happily then, her pride at conquering the condom evident, and his heart swelled with affection that stemmed, not from the physicality of the moment, but from that reminder of the goofy, golden, complex and courageous girl he’d known since early childhood.

And then, laughter still dancing in her eyes, Betty shifted the mood yet again, locking her fingers with his and bringing his hand to her lips, holding his gaze as she sucked his index finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue sensually over its tip before releasing it and moving her attention to his middle finger. One by one, each finger of his hand was subjected to the same treatment, flooding him anew with heat and need. When she’d finished, she pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand before placing it, very deliberately, on her breast. 

The laughter still lurked in her eyes, but it was mingled with heat now, and both were half-hidden beneath lids that had grown heavy with desire.

Gently, reverently, Jughead molded her breasts beneath his palms even as he kissed her, using his tongue to part her lips before delving inside. He didn’t want to rush her, _desperately_ didn’t want to hurt her, but his heart was pounding and his hands were shaking with need, and when he felt Betty’s hands on him again, skimming down over the condom and then lower, caressing the sac that hung, heavy and urgent, between his thighs, he couldn’t suppress a growl of desperate hunger.

“Betty,” he warned, his voice strangled and tense to his own ears, “if you keep that up, I won’t be able to hold back.”

“Then don’t,” she whispered against his lips. “Don’t hold back, Juggie. I’m ready.”

As if to prove the truth of her words, she took his hand again and placed it between her own thighs, and Jughead could have wept with gratitude to find her so hot and wet and incontestably ready for him.

“I’m just… scared it’s going to hurt,” he confessed. “For you, I mean.”

“Biology being what it is, Jug, it probably will,” Betty agreed dryly, and her matter-of-fact tone was so classically Betty, so much like her logical observations in class or in the _Blue and Gold_ office, that it aroused him still further. “But I can guarantee you it’s not going to hurt as much as _this_ does… the waiting, and the wanting. It already hurts, Jughead. But I know we can make it feel better.”

And with those words, Betty lay back on the couch, her head resting on its arm. One of her hands clutched his buttocks, drawing him down with her, while the other was still wrapped around his tumescence, just below the edge of the condom.

“It’s time,” she told him, her gaze intent.

A moment more, he hesitated, even as his body screamed for release, searching her face for any trace of reluctance or uncertainty. Instead, he found only heat, and trust, and a sure, steadfast love that took his breath away… and his fear with it.

And so he moved forward, one hand braced on the armrest next to Betty’s head, the other elbow on the back of the couch, taking his weight so that he wouldn’t crush her as he thrust his hips forward and…

Bumped futilely against Betty’s inner thigh, having missed his target completely.

“Sorry,” he rolled his eyes at his own ineptitude. “You’d almost think I had no idea what I was doing,” he said wryly.

But Betty’s eyes sparkled up at him. “Well, at least that saves me beating down the bitch who taught you your moves,” she teased, and he laughed aloud -– Betty saying ‘bitch’ was possibly the funniest thing he’d heard in months -– without losing any of his eagerness, verging on an obsession, to be inside her. “Good thing I still have hands free,” she added and, taking hold of him firmly once again, she guided his head to her entrance.

He could feel her heat through the thin sheath he wore. He drew a deep breath, bent to kiss her tenderly, lingering in the moment, then thrust forward, her fingers keeping his aim true, entering her in one smooth, frictionless motion as he met, then broke through, her body’s resistance.

Betty gasped, a sharp, pained sound, and he froze, his body seated deeply within hers. He pulled back slightly from their kiss to look into her eyes, wincing as he saw the sheen of tears.

“Oh my God,” he groaned, ignoring the exquisite perfection of her tight heat surrounding him. “You _are_ hurt.”

Betty was biting her lip and blinking back tears, but she shook her head almost impatiently. “It _did_ hurt… a little more than I expected, to be honest. But it’s okay, Jughead. _I’m_ okay. It’s already starting to feel better.” And then, as if demonstrating the truth of that statement, she shifted slightly, tilting her hips towards him at an angle that slid him even more deeply into her and wrenched a deep moan from him.

“You _tell_ me if you want to stop, or take a break,´he demanded fiercely, gritting his teeth to resist the urge to spill instantly.

Betty didn’t answer in words. She just nodded, before pulling him down for another kiss even as she rocked her hips up against him again and again, setting a gentle pace of the subtlest movements that nonetheless felt impossibly good.

Gradually, Jughead began to mimic her rhythm, meeting her, moving on her, a part of him unable to believe that this was real, that _she_ was real, even as another part was completely given over to this moment, to this woman, to the feeling of her body beneath him and around him, to the soft sounds of pleasure she’d begun to make again, reassuring him that she really _was_ okay… that she was enjoying this.

Rational thought was becoming more and more difficult for Jughead as those sounds and sensations flooded him, drowning out his internal narration.

The tension within him was building, a spiral that coiled deep into his body, drawing his energy, his focus to a glowing, needle-sharp point just behind where his body was joined with Betty’s. He could see her, flushed with passion… hear her sighs and soft cries… feel the eagerness, the renewed urgency in the way she moved against him…

And then his body tightened still further, gathered itself hard and still for an instant, a moment out of time, before pleasure sizzled through his veins as he crashed into her, shouting wordlessly as he shuddered to completion.


	50. Chapter 50

### Chapter 50

Jughead couldn’t stop smiling. He wasn’t _entirely_ sure he’d ever stop smiling again. Bruce had already teased him about it as they’d worked together in the kitchen, Bruce preparing a salad while Jughead set the table. Molly had already spirited Betty out the back door, allegedly to keep an eye on the chicken breasts on the barbecue – Jughead had learned quickly that Bruce and Molly were all-season grillers, bundling up in parkas and, he’d been told, shoveling a path to the barbecue when necessary – but more probably to ply Betty with hot chocolate and prevent her from helping in any more tangible way indoors.

“I’ve never seen such enthusiasm for household chores,” Bruce had said mock- seriously. “I’m afraid we’ve been depriving you since you arrived.”

“Order out of chaos, everything in its place,” Jughead had answered, matching his foster father’s tone as he continued to lay forks and spoons with mathematical precision. “It’s cosmically satisfying to help restore balance to the universe.”

“Un-hunh,” Bruce had said skeptically. “Molly paying you to cast me that line?”

“Virtue is its own reward,” Jughead had replied sanctimoniously. After a beat, they’d both burst into laughter.

“You do seem awfully happy, though,” Bruce had persisted when they had calmed themselves and returned to their respective tasks… Jughead with his giddy grin still firmly in place. A morning in bed –- figuratively speaking –- with Betty, followed by an afternoon of their usual, easy companionship had left him in an unprecedented state of blissed-out calm. “Somethin’ you want to share with the class?”

“I missed Betty this week,” Jughead had answered simply. “It was… good, spending the day with her. And it’s good having her here.

“Thank you for inviting her, by the way,” he’d added. “it was really nice of you.”

“If it makes you _this_ happy, we’ll have to do it again soon,” Bruce had answered warmly. “Hell, I might never have to set the table again!”

Now, catching Betty’s eyes on him as they sat around the table, Jughead suspected that his newly minted father figure knew there was more supporting his mood than he had admitted. If Jughead’s silly and persistent grin hadn’t tipped him off, Betty’s matching expression -– coupled with her truly adorable tendency to blush every time Jughead caught her eye –- probably had.

But Bruce wasn’t saying anything about it, and Jughead had no intention of borrowing trouble. This entire evening had felt to him like an episode of _Leave it to Beaver_ or _Family Matters_ or something similarly heartwarming and anachronistic. It had felt the way he’d _hoped_ the dinner at Betty’s, before Homecoming, would be.

And as he thought of that night, with FP by his side, wearing a suit FP had given him, Jughead’s smile finally disappeared. It just felt _wrong_ to be safe and warm and happy and well-fed, while his father sat alone in a jail cell, still waiting for a pre-trial hearing that seemed to be indefinitely delayed.

Betty, of course, noticed the shift in his mood immediately. Her own smile fading, she reached across the table -– miraculously avoiding collision with water glasses and salad bowls and the debris of a meal thoroughly enjoyed –- and took his hand.

“Maybe we could visit FP tomorrow?” she suggested softly, as if she’d followed his train of thought. Jughead nodded jerkily, blinking back tears at her ready understanding. His emotions were dangerously close to the surface today.

“I’d like that,” he managed to answer after a moment.

“I’ll drive you,” Bruce offered immediately.

“Oh, no, Mr. Foster. You don’t have to do that,” Betty said at the exact same moment that Jughead said “You don’t have to, Bruce.”

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” Bruce answered shortly. “But I’m glad to. And, I have an ulterior motive.”

“My favourite kind of motive,” Betty responded quickly, and Bruce chuckled appreciatively, as she’d obviously intended. There was no doubt that Betty had charmed the Fosters, despite the discomfort he’d sensed in them -– Molly particularly -– at the outset of the evening. The Coopers were just as well-known on the south side as they were in the more upscale end of town -– they were practically Riverdale royalty, with the influence they and their newspaper wielded –- and neither Alice nor Hal was notorious for setting people at their ease. He’d chalked the early awkwardness up to a very natural aversion to being judged and found wanting, to hosting a mini-Alice prying and prodding and finding fault with the tiny home the Fosters took such pride in, and shared so generously.

But it hadn’t taken long for the atmosphere to turn warm and relaxed. For as little time as he had known them, the Fosters definitely ranked with Betty and the Andrews men as the most _loving_ people he had ever known. And Betty was at her very best tonight, warm and relaxed and –- from his perspective, at least -– utterly irresistible. And so it hadn’t taken long for the atmosphere to thaw and the evening to turn cozy and companionable.

It was good to see Betty so happy after all the work she’d done in the days after Fred’s shooting. He’d been worried she’d slide back into patterns of over-functioning and perfectionism, demanding more of herself than anyone could possibly give. And she hadn’t said much about her week, but if her nightmares were back, he had to assume it hadn’t been a good one. Yet here she was, grinning goofily at him and blushing when she met his eyes, teasing Bruce and winning over Molly and displaying none of the brittleness that he knew came with the times she was spreading herself too thin, and cutting herself too little slack.

“Do we get to actually _hear_ the motive?” Jughead asked, mostly to prevent himself from lapsing into silence and staring at Betty again with a vacant smile on his face. “Or is it too nefarious to speak aloud?”

“Well, I’m _hoping_ that if I treat Ms. Cooper here well enough, she’ll take a look at my truck for me,” Bruce smiled. But Molly looked horrified.

“Bruce!” she gasped. “We do _not_ ask our guests for favours!”

But Betty had already half risen from her seat. “It’s all right, Mrs. Foster,” she assured Molly. “I’d _love_ to do it, actually. If you’ll excuse me, I can at least take a quick peek at it right now…”

“And get engine grease all over your lovely dress?” Molly interrupted, sounding even more aghast.

But at her words, Betty had fallen back into her seat, laughing helplessly, and Jughead joined her… partly because he shared her amusement, and partly because her laughter was so infectious.

“ _Now_ what have I said to set you off?” Molly asked them wryly.

“It’s not exactly _my_ dress, Mrs. Foster,” Betty gasped through her giggles. “Technically, it’s Jughead’s.” Molly’s look of confusion made Betty laugh even harder. But Jughead was no longer laughing.

“It’s yours,” Jughead confirmed tersely, frowning a little.

“ _You_ paid for it,” Betty countered.

“For _you_ ,” Jughead insisted, not even sure why he was making an issue of this. He’d been laughing as hard as Betty a moment ago. “And it was only three bucks. I’ve spent more buying you a milkshake at Pop’s… and you never tried to disclaim ownership of _that_.

“We went to the jumble sale at the Catholic church this afternoon,” he added to Molly by way of explanation.

“ _After_ Juggie got around to telling me I was invited to dinner, and I realized I needed something to wear,” Betty expanded.

“What was wrong with what you were already wearing?” Bruce asked, his gaze speculative.

“That _did_ have engine grease all over it,” Jughead answered honestly, trying to shut down that speculation. “Betty kinda… started the day with open heart surgery on my Dad’s truck.” Bruce nodded, clearly remembering how they’d found Betty that morning.

“But that grease was only the freshest,” Betty added dismissively. “There’s several vehicles’ worth of older grease already on it… and under _that_ , it’s a pretty ratty pair of overalls.”

“We wouldn’t have minded that, dear,” Molly said earnestly.

“ _You_ might not, but _I_ would,” Betty answered. “You’re kind enough to invite me to your home, and I show up filthy and leaving smears on everything? Not a chance.

"But I didn’t want to go all the way back home and waste a lot of my day with Juggie.” She also hadn’t wanted to deal with her mother’s questions and curiosity, or her inevitable resistance to Betty’s dinner engagement on the South Side, but there was no need to mention that.

“So we hit the jumble sale, and I liked the colour of that dress, but Betty didn’t want to buy it…” Jughead picked up the narrative.

“Because my mom would burn me at the stake if she saw me wearing it,” Betty interjected.

“So _I_ bought it,” Jughead concluded repressively.

“It’s a perfectly lovely dress,” Molly said, now looking confused. “What could your mother possibly have against it?”

Jughead snorted. “Where to begin?” he muttered, but he felt for Molly in her confusion. It _was_ a lovely dress – albeit in a somewhat retro way. A pale green that somehow made Betty’s blue eyes glow, it was fashioned like a soft and slightly fuzzy sweater. It wasn’t exactly tight, but it wasn’t exactly _not_ tight either, hugging her curves in a way that would definitely not have met with Alice’s approval, and ending a solid few inches above her knees –- another Alice no-no. The sleeves were long and fitted to the wrist, but with lots of extra fabric under the arms. Betty had called it a batwing sleeve, and said it had been popular in the 1980s. Jughead didn’t especially care what it was called, though, or how dated the style might be. In fact, the sleeves were largely irrelevant. He loved the colour of the dress, loved the touchable softness, the way it skimmed over Betty’s lithe form and the way she’d sighed over its comfort. It felt, somehow, dramatically more _her_ than any of the wardrobe her mother had imposed on her.

And, he realized now, he loved giving her a gift –- even such a paltry gift as a three dollar dress from a jumble sale –- and seeing her enjoy it.

But Betty was speaking, answering Molly’s question. “Well, aside from the fact that it’s second -– or third or fourth -– hand,” she said wryly, “which Mom does _not_ approve of, it doesn’t really match the aesthetic she has in mind for me.”

“Which is?” Bruce asked, watching her more closely than the question seemed to warrant.

“Mom’s okay with my jeans day-to-day,” Betty tried to explain. “And she’s even gotten used to my engine grease. But when I’m dressing up, she tends to prefer… pink. And… poufy. Picture dresses that would be appropriate if I were 10 years old and attending a birthday party… in 1952.”

Everyone laughed again, but Betty turned suddenly serious. “It _is_ a lovely dress. Thank you,” she said, her eyes on Jughead, then shifted her focus to Bruce. “But if you want me to take a look at your truck, I’d be happy to change back into my overalls.”

***

“She’s not what I expected.” Molly’s voice from the Fosters’ darkened bedroom was low, scarcely more than a whisper, and Jughead froze on his way to the bathroom. He’d gone to bed almost as soon as he and Bruce returned from driving Betty home. He hadn’t slept, though, instead replaying scenes from the day -– especially the morning at the trailer -– and from this evening’s dinner, inside his mind.

Molly had been on the phone with the couple’s biological son, a few years older than Jughead and now working 80 miles away and attending night school, when they returned home. She’d obviously finished her conversation, though, and, just as obviously, hadn’t heard Jughead leave his room.

“What _did_ you expect?” Bruce asked mildly, his voice sounding sleepy.

“ _I_ don’t know,” Molly sounded vaguely irritated. The silence stretched, though, as Bruce waited for an answer and Jughead held his breath in the hallway outside his own room. “I guess I expected some Cooper princess, bestowing charity and looking down on us. Or maybe rebelling against her parents and slumming with Jughead.”

Jughead’s heart throbbed a moment at her harsh words and the way the mirrored the fears of his own darkest moments.

“High school’s a long time ago, Moll,” Bruce said softly. “And Betty Cooper’s not Alice Smith, no matter how much she looks like her.” Jughead blinked at his apparent _non sequitur_.

“Well, I can see that _now_ ,” Molly answered exasperatedly.

“So what do you think of her?” he repeated his earlier question. There was another long pause.

“I think she really loves Jughead,” Molly answered at last. “And if she ends up hurting him, it won’t be on purpose.”


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still miles behind in answering individual comments; my apologies! I absolutely adore reading them, though, so please do keep letting me know what you think. And huge thanks to everyone who is still reading; I continue to be amazed at the warm reception and ongoing support you've provided for me and my fic!
> 
> Best,  
> Blue

### Chapter 51

Jughead endured some good-natured ribbing from Bruce, and even from Molly, over breakfast on Sunday, then spent the remainder of the morning in a state of nervous anticipation and increasing anxiety. He both wanted to see his dad… and desperately didn’t. A part of him was still worried about his father, uncertain about what would come next, completely unable to imagine what the rest of his life would look like if FP were going to spend most of it behind bars. He wanted to be sure his dad was okay, that he was being treated decently. A small, only half-acknowledged corner of his mind insisted on whispering, against all reason and evidence, that FP would be able to explain everything to him… and come home soon.

Another part of him, though, had to admit that his life was looking a lot brighter at the moment than it had in a long time… possibly ever. Popular and successful at school, cared for and supported at home -–a home that consistently offered both heat and groceries, no less –- with a gorgeous girlfriend who inexplicably seemed to love him as much as he loved her, Jughead felt as if he were living in one of the daydreams he used to weave for himself or turn into stories for Jellybean as they huddled under thin blankets, trying to distract themselves from empty bellies and their parents’ arguments. He felt almost guilty for being so happy, for settling into the Fosters’ home so readily, and he wasn’t sure it was fair to let his father know just how good things were.

Then, there was the small part of him that wanted to gloat… to show his dad that, after a lifetime of disappointments and deprivation occasioned by FP’s chronic bad decisions, he, Jughead, was doing just fine without him. And, of course, recognizing that impulse only increased his own guilt.

Not to mention the fact that, as the visiting hour approached, he was becoming increasingly aghast at his own audacity in accept Betty’s offer to accompany him to the county jail. True, she knew FP… seemed to genuinely like him, in fact. And she had charmed him just as much as she charmed everyone in Riverdale over the age of about 30. But she knew and liked the FP who’d been a dinner guest in her parents’ home and driven them to Homecoming… the “not incarcerated” edition of FP. Somehow, it seemed entirely different -– and entirely _wrong_ -– to take Betty into the jail, to involve her in a visit that had to take place through bars or under active surveillance by armed guards. It all just seemed so sordid and beneath her.

By the time he and Bruce picked Betty up mere moments after she’d arrived home from church, Jughead was in a fine sheen of perspiration, edgy to the point of surliness, and ready to call the whole thing off.

Betty, of course, was having none of that. Not that he’d voiced his reservations aloud... but then, with Betty, he rarely needed to.

“I called last night to schedule our visit,” she informed him as she slid what looked like a large picnic hamper across the back seat before climbing in herself. “By now, your dad’s been notified he’s having visitors. Of _course_ we’re following through. Hi, Mr. Foster.

“Besides, it’d be a shame for all this food to go to waste,” she added, gesturing to the hamper beside her as Bruce smiled at her in the rear view mirror before pulling away from the curb.

“Betts,” Jughead said helplessly, “there’s no way they’re letting us take that in there.”

“We can’t _leave_ any of it there,” Betty corrected him calmly as Bruce threaded through the quiet, Sunday streets. “All the leftovers and containers have to leave with us; they’ll actually take an inventory when we get there, and double-check when we go. But we are _definitely_ having lunch with FP.”

“Really,” Jughead said flatly, afraid to even let himself believe that such a humane possibility could be real.

Betty nodded, trying -– and failing miserably -– to suppress a smug smile. “I discussed it all with the desk sergeant last night when I called to book our visit,” she explained.

“And they said all _this_ ,” Jughead gestured expansively at the hamper… or as expansively as he could while craned around, trying to maintain eye contact with Betty in the back seat, “was okay?”

“Not initially,” Betty admitted.

“But?” Jughead prompted when she seemed disinclined to continue.

“Well…” Betty drew out the word as if she were hesitating, but there was a sparkle in her eye that belied her pretended reluctance. “I _may_ have pointed out that FP is still, legally speaking, an innocent man. He hasn’t been convicted of anything. In fact, he hasn’t even been arraigned yet. Which, by the way, is really, _really_ not okay.

“But, technically speaking, he’s not even a prisoner yet. He’s just remanded into custody. Which means that he’s _supposed_ to have more privileges than a convicted prisoner would. So… lunch,” Betty concluded.

“I didn’t know that,” Bruce interjected mildly. “That’s fairly impressive.”

But Betty waved a hand dismissively. “I just Googled it.”

“And then advocated for FP, based on what you’d learned,” Bruce pointed out. “And brought food. Which, after living with Jughead for a week, I am reasonably certain is the Jones language of love.” Both Betty and Jughead laughed. “All things considered, I’d say FP’s lucky to have you -– _both_ of you,” he added, “in his corner.

“Betty more than me,” Jughead muttered, ducking his head, feeling slightly sheepish that it hadn’t even occurred to him to do the research that Betty had.

“You’ve stood by FP for years, Jug,” Betty said, gaping at him incredulously. “ _Years_. I’m pretty sure that counts for more than a few sandwiches.”

***

As Bruce pulled away from the curb, Jughead saw Betty tighten her ponytail, then draw a deep breath and square her shoulders as if facing a firing squad. They mounted the crumbling, concrete steps of the county jail side by side, carrying the picnic hamper between them. He’d been here often enough that it had all become familiar, but today, Jughead felt as if he were seeing it all for the first time through Betty’s eyes.

There was a large coffee stain on the front of the desk sergeant’s rumpled uniform shirt, the buttons straining over his belly as though he’d gained a few pounds since putting on the uniform. But what rankled was the way he somehow managed to rifle through every inch of their possessions without once making eye contact or in any way acknowledging their presence.

The floors were bland and cold and colourless, made of that hard and unforgiving, seamless material that seemed ubiquitous in schools and hospitals, and near the entry to the building, they reeked of industrial-grade disinfectant. As they penetrated deeper into the building, though, the disinfectant smell became less pronounced, the floors dingier, until eventually it faded away completed, replaced with an indefinable, yet unmistakable, stench of desperate sadness.

The room set aside for visits was somehow both cramped and weirdly barren, a handful of scarred wood tables sloppily arranged into haphazard rows, glaring fluorescent lights, and not a single poster or flower or other attempt to brighten the grey walls and floor or to make it inviting or comfortable in any way. Two guards stood stationed just inside the door the prisoners would use, two more at the door for visitors. In case their presence was insufficient to remind people of their circumstances, closed circuit cameras were in each corner of the ceiling, further underscoring the message that there was neither privacy nor trust to be had in this place.

FP was already seated at one of the tables when they arrived, and his eyes widened slightly when he caught sight of Betty.

“Jesus, Jug,” he exclaimed, clearly torn between horror and hilarity, “ _this_ is your idea of a date? Way to show the lady a good time!”

“To be fair, Mr. Jones, I _did_ tell him we needed to shake up our routine, and get out of Pop’s,” said Betty with a teasing smile. “You can hardly blame him for resorting to unconventional means to entertain me.”

“Well, a visit to the family jail bird is certainly ‘ _unconventional_ ,’” FP agreed. “Does Alice know where you are?” he asked, his reluctant smile disappearing again as he asked the question.

Jughead froze. That hadn’t even occurred to him, although it obviously should have. The last thing he needed was to give Alice another reason to look down on him, to want him well away from her precious daughter. And he honestly couldn’t imagine her getting behind Betty making jailhouse visits.

“She does, as a matter of fact,” Betty confirmed. She was answering FP’s question, but her eyes were on Jughead, as if she’d followed his line of thinking “She was all for it.”

Jughead and FP made identical noises of incredulity at that, but Betty opened her eyes wide at them. “Honestly,” she insisted. “She even found me this basket to pack our snacks in.” She bent, pulling the massive hamper from under the table and placing it in front of her, but off to the side so it didn’t form a barrier between the visitors’ side of the table and FP’s.

“Really,” Jughead said, his tone skeptical.

Betty nodded, but the angelic smile on her face quickly turned sly. “Of course, her enthusiasm _may_ have had something to do with the fact that I brought it up for the first time while we were talking with Father Mackie after church this morning. _He_ was so glowing about the idea of ‘remembering our friends in hard times’ and ‘visiting the sick and imprisoned’ that _she_ obviously had to jump on the bandwagon.

“And,” she added reflectively, “she seems to be hoping the experience will ‘scare me straight… show me where the path of disobedience leads.’”

Both Jughead and FP had to laugh at that.

“How much ‘straighter’ can you get, Cooper?” he asked teasingly. “You make Father Mackie’s character look questionable.”

“Well, I _did_ get an A- _minus_ on my calculus test last week,” she said with mock contrition.

Jughead gasped theatrically. “Why, Father, I fear we are keeping low company,” he declaimed in an appallingly bad southern accent.

“I’ll risk it, FP said dryly, but he was still grinning. “Especially since I believe snacks were mentioned?”

Of course, Betty being Betty, it was no surprise that her “snacks” included not only an impressive selection of sandwiches and two kinds of salad, but also an oversized batch of FP’s favourite, chocolate chip and pecan cookies.

Conversation flowed easily as they ate, for which Jughead was thankful. Betty had seemed nervous and uncertain when they’d first entered the jailhouse, and her anxiety had increased during the intrusive, yet weirdly impersonal, inspection they’d been put through before accessing the visitors’ room. But that seemed to have disappeared the moment she’d set eyes on FP; since then, she had chatted easily, charmingly, as if they were all comfortably ensconced in her parents’ living room with a cozy fire on the hearth. So much so that, when the Jones men declared that even their legendary appetites could not face another mouthful, Betty consulted briefly with a guard, and then began circulating around the room, offering sandwiches and cookies to anyone who wanted them.

“I can help you,” Jughead offered, half-standing.

“Sit. Visit,” Betty replied, pushing him gently back into his seat, and she was gone.

A pause fell over their table, and Jughead found himself suddenly at a loss for words.

”She’s really something,” FP said, nodding towards Betty, who was laughing at something a jumpsuited prisoner had said to her.

“That she is,” Jughead agreed sincerely.

“And you’re… okay?” FP asked him.

“I am, Dad,” Jughead confirmed. “Better than okay, actually. The Fosters are really… nice. Betty and I had dinner with them last night, actually.”

“And South Side High?” FP asked shrewdly.

Jughead shrugged. “It’s not exactly a beacon of academic excellence,” he acknowledged. “But I fit in better than I ever did at Riverdale. I have friends… in the plural, no less. And the teachers love me. They treat me like I’m…”

“What?” his father prompted.

“Betty,” Jughead answered. FP’s confusion was obvious, though, so he explained. “At Riverdale, the staff always looked at me suspiciously… like they assumed I was going to cause trouble, or cut classes, or flunk assignments at any moment. But at South Side, I’m like… Betty. The golden child, the shining example… honour roll and extra curriculars and squeaky clean image.

“It’s weird,” he concluded. “I mean, things are so terrible right now… you’re stuck in here. And yet, I have it pretty good right now. _Really_ good,” he amended.

“That’s as it should be,” FP said gruffly. “You’re the one that matters now.”

“You matter too, Dad,” Jughead said, reaching across the table to take his father’s hand. FP clung to him, but didn’t abandon his point.

“You’re _supposed_ to have it good, Jug,” he insisted. “A good home and plenty of food and teachers who treat you like you matter… you deserve those things. You always should have had them. And the reason you didn’t was that _I_ didn’t give them to you. Not ever.”

“Dad,” Jughead tried to interrupt, but FP pressed on. 

“Don’t feel bad because _you’re_ finally getting the life I should have given you, and _I’m_ getting the life I made for myself,” he said heatedly. “Hell, _I_ don’t feel bad about it. It’s the only damn thing keeping me going right now. Seeing you like this… happy… safe… I wish it could’ve happened sooner. But I’m glad it’s happening now.”

Jughead swallowed hard and blinked back a mist in his eyes. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that Betty now had a visiting child in her lap, giggling through a chocolate-smeared mouth full of cookie at something Betty had said to her.

“Let yourself be happy, Jug,” FP said at last. “’Cause if you aren't happy _now_ , you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

Jughead nodded. “I’ll be back to visit soon,” he promised hoarsely.

“I’ll be here, “ FP answered wryly. “You can pretty much count on that.”


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story has now received more than 700 kudos, which pretty much blows my mind. I never even imagined that 700 people would _read_ it, to say nothing of enjoying it. A huge thank you to all of you for the ongoing support and the wonderful comments! Riverdale fans are just the best!

### Chapter 52

By the time 5:30 rolled around that evening, meeting Archie and Veronica at Pop’s was, if not quite the _last_ thing Jughead wanted to do, certainly not at the top of his personal wish list. True, the visit with FP had been about as good as any visit to jail could possibly be… thanks, in no small part, to Betty’s thoughtfulness and her genuine warmth. But it had also been emotionally taxing, and had left him feeling tired and raw and in need of comfort.

Which meant that, if Jughead were ranking his preferences just now, going back to FP’s trailer with Betty was at the very top… particularly if she happened to share his eagerness to make love again, as soon as humanly possible. But honestly? Even if she didn’t, that crappy little trailer on the wrong side of the tracks had recently come to feel like home to him in a way it never had when he actually lived there. It was where Betty had found him on the night of FP’s arrest, and stayed with him so he didn’t have to be alone… where he’d made her pancakes, the first meal he’d ever cooked for her… where they’d made love for the first time. And even if sex were completely off the table for the night, Jughead thought, he’d be perfectly happy to make pancakes for Betty for supper and cuddle on the ratty old couch while they talked, or watched a movie, or just gazed blankly into space together.

If the trailer were off-limits, he’d be almost as happy to go to Betty’s house, too… to climb in her window as he’d done so often before the state dragged him off to live on the other side of town, and shelter with her in that first haven they’d made for each other when the rest of their world had stopped making sense.

Or, if alone time really couldn’t be managed, he’d even have been happy to invite Betty back to the Fosters’ for dinner again. He knew they’d welcome her – the only issue he could foresee was how to prevent them from adopting her – and another night of food and family, of laughter and love, seemed like a perfect way to wash away the sadness that seemed to cling to his skin after visiting the jail.

A movie at the Bijou… a walk by the river, defying the winter cold… a break-in at the school to visit the _Blue and Gold_ offices where they’d grown steadily closer as they worked together… Yeah, Jughead could think of quite a few ways he’d rather spend this evening with Betty.

But Betty had made Archie a promise, and that mattered to her… and _she_ mattered to Jughead.

So, 5:30 found him sliding into a booth at Pop’s with Betty at his side, nodding a greeting to Veronica, who was impeccably groomed, as always, and Archie, whose vaguely pissed-off expression sat strangely on his genial, all-American boy features. To be fair, his recent case of perpetual grim did have some justification. Jughead was well aware that, difficult as it was visiting his father in jail, at least no one had _shot_ FP in front of his very eyes.

“You okay, man?” he asked Archie as he sat. Archie grunted and shrugged noncommitally, but directed his first words to Betty.

“You’re late,” he accused. 

Jughead felt his eyebrows rising at his harsh tone. Beside him, Betty froze for a moment, glancing at the clock behind Pop's counter.

“Late?” she echoed.

“We _said_ 5:30,” Archie said petulantly.

Betty glanced at the clock again, then pulled out her phone and checked it, too. She glanced at Jughead, looking puzzled. He, on the other hand, was leaning more towards annoyed.”It’s 5:33,” she said.

“Which is _after_ 5:30,” Archie said flatly.

“What? Are you now the Ghost of Christmas Greenwich Mean Time?” Jughead challenged. He could feel Betty’s confusion and guilt in the tension of the arm resting against his own, and he was _not_ okay with that. “Three minutes is not ‘late.’ It’s… a _rounding_ error. It’s… one red light, plus a parental admonition.”

“Is everything okay, Arch?” Betty cut in, her voice patient and concerned. But Jughead was pleased to note that the tension in her body had lessened at his words. “Is your _dad_ okay?”

“No, he’s not okay,” Archie answered scornfully. “Someone shot him.”

“Archiekins,” Veronica broke in, looking uncomfortable, “everyone here knows that. And it’s terrible. But… your dad’s doing really _well_.” She turned to address Betty and Jughead. “We saw him today. He was awake, and breathing on his own; they’ve totally taken him off the respirator. He talked to us, and the doctor said…”

“They’d _know_ what the doctor said if they’d bothered to visit, Ronnie.” Archie’s voice cracked like a whip, and Veronica flushed for a moment before she collected herself and got right in his face as only Veronica Lodge could.

“And they’d know tomorrow’s lottery numbers if they were psychic,” she retorted crisply, “but those aren’t the parameters we’re operating within at this point, so we have to adapt. Which, in this case, means providing an update to the friends who have clocked more visiting hours at the hospital this week than the rest of Riverdale combined, and cutting them some slack on the grounds that it’s just possible that they have lives and families of their own to contend with.

“So dial down the outrage, Archiekins, or you’ll find yourself holding down this booth with only your own attitude for company. And having spent the day with your attitude, I really can't recommend it.”

Archie twitched his shoulder in irritation and stared out the window, but made no other response. An awkward silence fell at the table. After a moment, Jughead broke it.

“We were visiting _my_ dad,” he explained, and wondered if it was his imagination that made him think Archie had bristled at his words. Betty had slipped her hand into his under the table, though, so he didn’t much care either way.

“Oh my God!” Veronica exclaimed, as Archie continued to stare out the window. “How is he?”

“Better, since Betty plied him with sandwiches and homemade cookies,” Jughead answered, leaning into Betty slightly for the simple pleasure of feeling her solid presence.

“Better since his firstborn spent the day with him and showed him he’s still loved,” Betty countered, snuggling against him so that her body warmed him just as her words had.

“Awww… heart eyes!” Veronica purred.

“He’s _probably_ better because no one shot a hole in him,” Archie interjected before she could continue.

“ _What_ is your _problem_?” Jughead challenged, goaded into snapping at his best friend. “Is this some kind of pity party… some twisted game of ‘would you rather’?” 

He put on a game show host voice. “Wo-o-o-uld you rather… have your father shot, or arrested? It’s the game where the choices all suck, and your hopes don’t matter.”

“Stop,” Betty’s voice cut through the escalating tension at the table. “Just stop. This is _not_ a game. It’s not a competition. It’s not a war. _Both_ of your dads are having a really bad time right now. And _everybody_ at this table is sorry about that. Is that seriously even in question?”

“Betty’s right,” Veronica concurred, “so how about we dial down the cray-cray and decide what to order?”

Jughead wasn’t exactly prepared to cease hostilities. He was tired and cranky after a difficult day. He hadn’t even wanted to be here in the first place, and he was, by now, officially pissed off at Archie’s behavior. But he was, without question, ready to eat, so he decided to roll with Veronica’s suggestion.

They didn’t bother requesting menus; any one of them could have recited Pop’s full array of options by heart. But Veronica and Betty made a bit of a production of debating milkshake flavours. In the end, they both settled for their usual, leading Jughead to suspect the little by-play had less to do with decision-making than with allowing tempers to cool before flagging down a waitress.

The evening did improve pretty significantly after the food arrived. Jughead felt significantly better – and more prone to forgiveness – once he’d devoured his first burger. And while Archie never recovered his characteristic, easy-going demeanor, he did recover from most of his surliness and participate in the conversation without further conflict. Neither he nor Veronica was sharing many details of what they’d been up to recently, which, Jughead supposed, told its own story. But he couldn’t help but notice that, in reviewing the weekend, there was no mention of Mary’s pancakes; it didn’t seem that the invitation Betty had declined the previous morning had been extended to Archie’s girlfriend.

But it felt good to be back in a booth at Pop’s together, to fall into the easy companionship he’d built with the three people who’d been his friends, even when he was the perpetual outsider at Riverdale High, rather than an admired member of the inner circle at South Side. Yes, Archie was grumpy… but he’d been grumpy before – often with far less provocation – and their friendship had survived. Yes, Veronica was both entitled and unsettlingly direct… but those characteristics had inexplicably become part of her charm over the course of the months they’d known one another. And yes, Betty was both fully clothed and dividing her attention between him and their friends… but she was _Betty_ and she was beside him, and under those conditions, it was impossible _not_ to feel better about life in general.

“I’m sorry, you guys,” Betty said at last. “I know it’s early, but I am just _wiped_. It’s been a long day.”

“A long _week_ ,” Veronica agreed, tactfully failing to mention that it was only 8:30. “And you’ve been pulling double homework duty, thanks to Archiekins here. I can call Smithers to take you home,” she added, but Betty was already shaking her head.

“I’m okay, V,” she said. “If Jughead will walk me home?”

“Of course,” he agreed quickly, as if there had ever been the slightest question that he would.

Archie was scowling again as they slid out of the booth together, but Jughead wasn’t worrying about it. He was Veronica’s problem now.

Outside, winter had definitely arrived. The air was cold, the ground rimed with frost and slightly slippery. Instead of holding Betty’s hand, Jughead slipped his arm around her, holding her close as they began to walk.

“I’m sorry,” Betty said softly. “I just didn’t want to spend any more of the evening with Archie and Veronica, much as I love them both.”

“It’s okay,” Jughead answered just as softly. “You may recall that _I_ would cheerfully have foregone the pleasure of their company for any portion of the evening… and that was _before_ discovering that someone appears to have peed in the boy wonder’s cornflakes this morning.”

“He’s going through something,” Betty said with a shrug, but her comment sounded resigned rather than defensive.

“I’m in foster care because my mother abandoned me and my dad’s in jail,” Jughead countered, but without heat. ”Should _I_ be bitching everyone out, too?”

“Nah, you’ve already got the brooding scowl down to a science,” Betty answered, snuggling a little closer. “Why mess with success?”

“So… bad behaviour is okay for Archie, but not for me?” Jughead persisted, not even sure why this was bothering him.

“Archie’s… he’s not like you, Juggie,” Betty said.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say. What does _that_ mean?” Jughead asked hotly.

“He’s…” Betty began helplessly, then began again. “You’ve been through hard things, Jug. Again and again, your whole life. You… _expect_ things to be hard. You deal with it when it happens. And you appreciate the heck out of the times that are better.

“Archie’s not like that. Most of his life has been pretty easy. That’s what he expects. So when things go wrong or get difficult… he’s shocked and disappointed, and if we’re being honest here, we’re both going to admit that he doesn’t deal with it gracefully. It’s not like we’ve never seen it before, Jug. You and I have _both_ been friends with him long enough to know that.”

“So, he’s allowed to have a tantrum because _his_ life isn’t supposed to be hard?” Jughead asked, unable to challenge the accuracy of Betty’s observation.

“It’s not about being allowed. It's just... what _is_. And it’s not unexpected. Which,” Betty added, pausing in her walk and turning to face him, “is why I can only take so much of him this evening. Life gets hard sometimes, Jug. I’d rather spend my time with someone who can deal with it.”

Any answer he might have made was deferred, because she stood on her toes to punctuate her comment with a kiss… a kiss that built rapidly, and left them both short of breath.

“Do you want to go back to the trailer?” Jughead asked her when they broke apart.

“No,” Betty shook her head, to his absurdly acute disappointment. “I really would rather go home right now.” Jughead nodded, trying to conceal his lack of enthusiasm for the plan, but Betty wasn’t finished speaking.

“If we go to the trailer, I’ll have to be home by 10:00 for school-night curfew. But if you take me home right now, we can both get brownie points for my being home early… and then you can sneak in my window and stay for as long as you can before _your_ curfew.”

Jughead felt relief bubble up inside his chest, but all he said was, “I do love your devious mind, Cooper. Lead on.”


	53. Chapter 53

### Chapter 53

It was hard to believe it was barely a week since the last time Jughead had climbed through her window. Honestly, even school on Friday felt like a lifetime ago. It was as if the past couple of days had been so significant, so life-changing, they’d erected a barrier between _now_ and everything that had gone before.

Of course, Betty acknowledged privately, it was also entirely possible that sleep deprivation was distorting her perception, playing tricks on her mind. She certainly hadn’t had a solid night’ sleep since Jughead moved to the Fosters’ last Monday.

“Hey there, Juliet,” Jughead greeted her as he slipped over the sill, and she couldn’t help but smile at the memories the phrase evoked. “Do I need to stay poised for flight or concealment, in case of a sudden parental invasion?”

Betty shook her head, still smiling. “They were _thrilled_ you brought me home early,” she said truthfully. “Honestly, I underestimated just how much capital that move would net you. And Mom totally ate it up when I told her I wanted to get a good rest to be at my best for a new week.”

“She wasn’t suspicious at _all_?” Jughead asked.

Betty laughed reminiscently. “She was at first,” she admitted, “so I made a snide remark about Archie staying out ‘til all hours, and she totally lost her train of thought. She’s completely incapable of passing up an opportunity to badmouth Archie.” Normally, of course, the same was true of Alice’s thoughts on Jughead, but Betty couldn’t see any value in pointing that out. Jughead probably knew it anyway.

“Again with the devious mind,” was his only comment, though, and he smiled appreciatively before his gaze dropped to her lips. Betty felt excitement curl, low in her belly, in response to his gaze, as palpable as a touch.

“I’ve missed you this week,” Jughead whispered before bending his head the few inches that separated them and claiming her mouth with his own, even as his hands grasped her hips and drew her body flush against his.

Betty’s breath hitched at the sensation of his body against hers. She’d missed him , too… missed his quiet observations when they sat together at lunch… missed trading theories and observations with him in the _Blue and Gold_ office after school… missed his warm solid presence beside her in her bed at night. Texts and calls just weren’t the same, and she felt half-starved for Jughead’s touch, his physical presence. The fatigue buzzing in her ears, the nightmares that had haunted her all week, faded into insignificance, drowned out by the music of Jughead’s lips against hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands, soothing her and setting her on fire at the same time.

It was Jughead who pulled back eventually, and Betty was gratified to see that he was breathing as heavily as she was, his eyes glassy with desire and still shining with a tenderness that grounded her.

“Will your mother be expecting to hear you go… clean your teeth and… stuff? he asked.

Betty sighed resignedly, partly at the validity of his question – of _course_ her mother’s vigilance would extend to ensuring that all Alice-approved bedtime routines were observed – partially at the awkwardness of his question, as if they were back in the early, fumbling days of figuring out their new relationship.

“Probably,” she admitted. “Better get it over with. God help me if she comes up here to remind me.” With a last, lingering kiss, Betty crossed the hall to the bathroom, leaving her door ajar to avoid arousing Alice’s suspicions as to _why_ she was closing it. She knew she could trust Jughead to stay out of sight.

It didn’t take her more than five minutes – eight, at the outside – to clean her teeth, wash and moisturize her face, and pee. But in those short minutes, the adrenaline that had been fueling her for longer than she cared to remember, deserted her, and she abruptly began to feel the weight of her own exhaustion.

The Jubilee… Fred’s shooting… the days of anxious waiting at the hospital, followed by a week of early morning hospital visits and late-night tutoring… a week when the nightmares that plagued her sleep drove her from her bed, night after night, until her eyes were hot and gritty with fatigue… it all seemed to hit her at once, sapping her strength and leaving her questioning whether she’d even make it back to her room. If Jughead hadn’t been there, she might not have even tried… might have just lain down on the bathroom floor and slept there until someone woke her, or until her nightmares inevitably returned.

But Jughead _was_ there, waiting in her room, and if she could jog to the South Side to see him, surely she could manage to cross the hall for the chance to spend a few stolen moments in his arms.

“G’night,” she called down the stairs, underscoring for her parents’ benefit that she was turning in, and heard the vague murmur of their response before she stepped back into her room, clicking the door shut behind her.

Heat was still simmering in Jughead’s eyes as she entered, but it was replaced almost immediately with concern.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You okay? You look…” Betty quirked a challenging eyebrow at him. “Gorgeous,” he finished hastily, obviously having correctly interpreted her warning look. “ _Gorgeous_ , but tired…”

As if in proof of his words, Betty stifled a yawn, but immediately shook herself slightly and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t going to waste a minute of this precious time with Jughead, after endless days of missing him. “I’m fine,” she assured him, stepping forward to loop her arms boldly around his neck. “Now, where were we?”

But Jughead was backing away from her, his expression suddenly somber. “Please don’t do that with me,” he said quietly.

“Do what?” Betty asked uncertainly, wondering briefly whether sleep deprivation was making her dull-witted.

“Don’t… put on your game face. Don’t tell me that you’re ‘fine’ when it’s kinda obvious that you’re not,” he answered seriously. “You don’t have to be ‘perfect Betty Cooper’ with me, Betts… remember?”

Tears stung her eyes, even as she shook her head in an attempt at denial. “That’s not what I’m…” she began, but under Jughead’s clear-eyed stare, she couldn’t continue and fell silent instead.

“How much did you sleep last night?” he asked her, and Betty felt her cheeks flush, her stomach go hollow as she resisted an overwhelming urge to hide. Instead, she looked away, unable to cope with the compassion and concern she could feel rolling off Jughead in waves. “Betts?” he persisted, but she only bit her lip and shook her head again. She _couldn’t_ have this conversation… couldn’t deal with it right now.

“Or maybe that’s the wrong question,” Jughead continued when it seemed to become clear to him that she wasn’t going to answer. He stepped closer to her, laying a hand on either side of her face and pressing gently, trying to turn her to meet his gaze. When she resisted, though, he didn’t force her. Instead, he stepped to the side and crouched down, bringing his own face into her line of sight. “Maybe I _should_ be asking ‘ _did_ you sleep last night?’ Or,” he added, as realization dawned over his face, “ did you stay up all night preparing that feast we took to the jail?”

Betty couldn’t lie to him. She nodded slowly, even has her tears brimmed over and rolled down her face.

“ _Betty_ ,” Jughead said helplessly. “You didn’t have to do that. Please, _tell_ me you know you didn’t have to do that. No one expected…” Betty laid her fingers over his lips, effectively silencing him.

“I tried,” she whispered hoarsely. “I did try.” Jughead didn’t speak, didn’t prompt her. He just sank down on the edge of the bed, pulling her down to sit beside him, held close in his protective embrace, as he waited patiently for her to continue.

Betty licked her lips, which were suddenly dry. “After I booked our visit, I baked the cookies to take along. And then I went to bed. I _tried_ to get a good sleep… I did… but it was barely an hour later that I woke up, too terrified to move. It was as bad as that first night you came over, when I was afraid to go back to sleep… worse, even. So I…” she licked her lips again, half wishing Jughead would say something, let her know what he was thinking, half thankful that he didn’t interrupt. “I started cooking,” she continued at last. “And I didn’t stop until it was time to make breakfast.”

She couldn’t look at Jughead, afraid of what she’d see in his face. So she just sat there, holding her head up by sheer force of will, even as her body sagged into his.

There was a long pause, during which she tried to battle back her sense of unreality by focusing on her breathing as her doctor had recommended. She carefully kept her hands open, relaxed on her lap, resisting the urge to curl them into fists, to press until the blood came.

“And yesterday morning, you were up at… what?” Jughead asked her. “Four a.m.?”

“Three thirty,” she whispered, determined not to lie to him even over a detail, and Jughead made a small sound of distress.

“And the night before that?” he pressed her.

“Jug…” Betty said helplessly.

“How long, Betty?” Jughead insisted, his voice almost angry. “How long has it been since you had a good night’s sleep?”

“Since…” Betty cleared her throat and tried again. “Since you were here the last time.”

“The last time,” Jughead echoed blankly. “As in, last Sunday? A _week_ ago? And in all that time… all our texts, all our talks, you haven’t said anything – not a _word_ – to me?”

“We talked about this yesterday, Jug,” Betty answered, feeling even more tired now. “I told you then… I didn’t see any point in telling you sooner. What good would it do? It would just make you feel bad, and you’re dealing with your own stuff…”

“Stop,” Jughead commanded, and Betty recoiled from the lash of his tone.

“Stop what, exactly?” she asked when he didn’t continue.

“Stop treating me like I’m Weatherbee… or your mom… or the mayor… or the prom committee… or anyone else you have to play perfection for. Stop shutting me out when you’re hurting. Stop playing this game.

“We _did_ talk about this yesterday, Betts. You’re right about that, at least. And I _told_ you that I want to know the truth about what’s going on with you… always. Even when it’s hard. Even when it makes me sad. Even when I can’t make it better. I don’t want you to tell me so I can ‘fix’ it; I know that I can’t. I just want to go through it _with_ you.

“It’s like you coming with me to visit my dad today, or staying with me the night he got arrested. You can’t change what’s happening to him, or to me… but you’ve never once left me to deal with it alone.

“Please, Betty,” he concluded, his own eyes shining with unshed tears, “if you love me at all… stop pretending to be okay when you’re not. Respect me enough to give me the hard stuff… trust me enough to let me share your pain, even though I can’t take it away.”

By now, Betty’s tears were streaming down her face. Her nose was running, too, and her shoulders shook with the effort of holding back her sobs. “Okay,” she managed to gasp, and then turned more fully towards Jughead, throwing herself into his arms and sobbing with all the fear and the anguish and the hurt and the desperation that had haunted her, day and night, for the past week and more.

At last, her sobs subsided, and she found herself lying next to Jughead on her bed, her head cradled on his chest as it had been so many nights before.

“I needed that,” she admitted when she finally felt ready to speak.

“Yeah, I’d say you did,” Jughead answered, but his smile was sad. “I can’t believe your parents didn’t hear that and come check on you, though.”

Betty shrugged, pulling up the hem of her t-shirt to wipe her face. “They never do,” she said simply. 

It was no more than the truth. She’d long since learned that, so long as her crying happened in private, so long as it didn’t embarrass the family, her parents would just leave her to it. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had come to her when she cried. Even in her little girlhood, it felt in memory as though she’d always cried alone.

And somehow, Jughead knew that. His harsh tone was gone, replaced with gentleness and infinite sadness when he spoke again. “Betty, will you please, _please_ promise me that you won’t suffer alone like this… that you won’t keep pushing me away so that you can pretend to be okay?”

Betty hesitated, reluctant to give a promise that she was still more reluctant to keep.

“Betts?” Jughead prompted, and she could hear the hurt in his voice now. “Can’t you trust me with that?”

Betty was still struggling for words, but she found she actually wanted to explain.

“My relationships… don’t work like that, Juggie,” she said slowly. “I…” She paused, then tried again. “It’s my job to be okay, all the time… to be _there_ for people, and to be okay with it. I help Archie with his homework and I help Polly with sneaking out of the house. I help and I help and I don’t get tired and I don’t get sad and I don’t complain … it’s what I _do_ , all the time. It’s what people expect of me… It’s…”

“It’s what?” Jughead prompted, and his voice was so soft, it almost broke Betty’s heart.

“It’s what they love me for,” she whispered. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Juggie. I’m just… not sure I know how to do what you’re asking. And I don’t want to make a promise I don’t know how to keep.”

It felt like an age before Jughead answered this time.

“Can you promise to try,” he asked her.

” _That_ I can do,” Betty agreed, only to yawn again immediately. The storm of emotion had left her drained, and even more tired than she’d been before.

“Sleep now, Cooper,” Jughead said, snuggling her more securely against him.

“Now?” Betty repeated incredulously, even as she struggled upright. “I’m not going to sleep _now_. I've been missing you all week; I’m not going to waste our time together _sleeping_. I’ll sleep when you go home.”

“I’m not going,” Jughead answered absolutely. “Not tonight.”

Relief flooded Betty in spite of herself, but she still had to ask, “What about the Fosters? Didn’t I hear something about a curfew?”

Jughead shrugged. “If I get grounded, I get grounded,” he said indifferently, “but I’m staying with you tonight. _And_ I’ll try to stave off disaster,” he added, pulling his phone out of his jeans pocket. Holding it so Betty could read the screen beside him, he typed “Bruce” into the “to” field of his texting app.

“Okay if I stay at Archie’s tonight? Will get a ride to school tomorrow.”

The reply came within moments, but Betty’s eyes were already feeling heavy when it arrived. 

“Ok for tonight, but school-night sleepovers won’t be a habit. Say hi to ‘Archie’ for us. We'd love to see him back here for Saturday dinner again.”

Betty tried to laugh, tried to share Jughead’s appreciation for Bruce’s humour – and his obvious awareness of where Jughead was really spending the night – but she was too tired to do more than smile in response before she drifted off to sleep.


	54. Chapter 54

### Chapter 54

“Well, good morning, Casanova.”

Jughead froze halfway down the ladder, caught between Betty’s window and the Coopers’ frozen lawn. He’d debated long and hard over what time to leave Betty… early enough to avoid parental detection, but not so early as to deprive her of much-needed sleep… early enough to walk to South Side High, given that his ‘ride’ (much like his sleepover at Archie’s) was entirely fictitious, but not so early as to deprive _him_ of every possible moment of basking in Betty’s warmth. He’d debated and calculated, planned and assessed…

And here he was, caught.

“I prefer Romeo, actually,” he said without so much as glancing over his shoulder as he resumed his descent. “Good morning, Veronica,” he added as he reached the ground and finally turned to face her where she stood, a steaming mug in hand, in the chilly, grey pre-dawn.

“Really?” Veronica’s tone was incredulous, her eyebrows almost at her hairline. “You _prefer_ the fictional teenager who died a pointless death to the _actual_ historical figure and acclaimed writer who lived to a ripe, old age?”

Jughead shrugged. “His last 60 years or so were all jail cells and venereal disease. I’ll pass.”

“Fair enough,” Veronica acknowledged.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Jughead prompted when it became apparent she wasn’t going to continue.

“ _That_ is an entirely separate issue, Forsythe,” Veronica answered airily, “and one for which you’ve come to _entirely_ the wrong place. I’m here for some girl talk, and I seriously doubt that ‘pleasure’ will enter into the equation.”

Jughead waited a beat. “I qualify for ‘girl talk’ now?”

“Well, beggars can’t be choosers,” Veronica shrugged. “Just think of this as your lucky day.”

“Can girl talk happen quickly?” Jughead asked, pulling out his phone to glance at the time. “I kind of need to get going.”

“Walking to South Side High?” Veronica surmised. “On an empty stomach?” Jughead shrugged again. It wasn’t his preferred start to the morning, but it wouldn’t kill him for one day. He’d made his choice when he’d decided to stay with Betty last night. 

“Allow me to propose an alternative,” Veronica offered.

“First girl talk, and now you’re proposing?” Jughead joked. “I didn’t know you cared.”

Veronica rolled her eyes at him almost audibly. “Yes, you’re hilarious,” she said. “Get over it, or I’ll retract my proposal before you even get to hear it.” She paused, clearly waiting to see if any more wisecracks were forthcoming. Jughead opted for discretion over valour and remained silent. “I buy you breakfast at Pop’s now, and after girl talk and bacon grease, Smithers will drop you off at the main entrance of Alcatraz Prep.”

Jughead nodded wordlessly. Breakfast and a ride sounded significantly better than his original morning agenda, despite his uneasy feeling that there’d be a price to pay for the upgrade. Veronica’s opening words had been somewhat… ominous. He was normally more articulate than this, but he was still off-balance from being so unexpectedly accosted halfway to the ground. And he hadn’t had any coffee yet.

“I just gotta put away…” he began, turning back towards the house, but the ladder was already in its usual place against the garage, well away from Betty’s window. He turned back to Veronica, but before he could even frame a question, she was answering him.

“Smithers stowed your stairway to heaven while we were debating the relative merits of various literary lovers,” she said breezily, turning back towards her town car. “Get in.”

He didn’t think he had hesitated, but apparently, he wasn’t moving quickly enough to satisfy Veronica. “Today, please,” she called back to him. “My coffee’s getting cold.”

***

“So… girl talk,” Jughead prompted when they were seated at Pop’s, their breakfasts in front of them. Veronica had refused to discuss anything in the car, glancing significantly at Smithers in the front seat. Jughead hadn’t minded, actually; she’d had a coffee waiting for him in the car, too – a good coffee – and sipping it in silence wasn’t any kind of hardship. “Should I start?”

“Oh, please,” Veronica scoffed, “you don’t have the ovaries for the job. _I’ll_ talk. You just… refuel and try to keep up.”

Jughead raised his eyebrows, but nodded acquiescence.

Despite Veronica’s insistence on speaking first, the fact that she’d orchestrated this whole conversation, she seemed at a loss for how to start.

“Archie and Betty have been friends for a long time,” she said at last, after a pause Jughead had filled by swallowing half his coffee (far inferior to the cup he’d enjoyed on the way over, but blessedly bottomless) in a single gulp and making a solid dent in his home fries. He nodded wordlessly, partially because his mouth was full, partially because there was no real need to comment; they both knew Veronica’s words were true. “And this week… since the shooting,” she clarified, “they’ve been spending a lot of time together… even more than usual.” Jughead nodded again.

“Does that not… worry you, even slightly?” Veronica asked and Jughead sensed that she had come to the crux of her point. “Because – just between us girls – it’s starting to worry _me_ , and my unshakable confidence is the stuff of legend.”

Jughead swallowed a mouthful… hard. “Worry me… how, exactly?” he asked cautiously.

Veronica leveled him with a glance that could have stripped paint. “Don’t play dumb with me, _Forsythe_ ,” she said in a tone to match the look, ignoring his wince at her second use of his given name. “It doesn’t suit you.

“But if you’re going to force me to spell it out, I’m asking whether it concerns you that the stunning blonde who carries your heart around in her jeans pocket is spending an inordinate amount of time with a handsome, guitar-playing quarterback who’s been her best friend since before she could walk.”

“Veronica,” Jughead said, trying to keep his disbelief out of his own tone, “are you _seriously_ telling me you’re worried something’s going on between _Archie and Betty_?”

But Veronica shook her head vehemently. “No, I’m telling you that I’m worried something is _going to happen between them if you and I don’t take some concrete action to prevent it.”_

__

“V, Archie practically had to pick his jaw up off the floor the first night you walked into this place,” Jughead said earnestly. “Betty does an impression that’s pretty funny, actually. And to this very day, his eyes still glaze over when he looks at you for more than three seconds. And as for Betty?” Jughead shrugged self-consciously. “She loves me,” he said simply. “That may sound arrogant or naïve or whatever but… it’s the truth.”

__

“Neither of those points is in question, Jughead” Veronica answered almost impatiently. “Betty’s love for you would be pretty glaringly obvious, even if she _didn’t_ have a tedious-yet-endearing habit of rhapsodizing on the wonder that is Jughead Jones at least once a day. And young Archibald has never made any secret of the fact that I give him tingly feelings in his boy parts.”

__

“So what’s the problem?” Jughead asked, desperately trying to unhear that last part of that comment.

__

Veronica sighed heavily, staring down at the table, and when she raised her eyes to Jughead’s again, he was shocked. He’d never seen – never even _imagined_ – her looking so nakedly vulnerable, he smooth self-possession nowhere in sight.

__

“Archie doesn’t talk to me,” she said flatly. “I mean, our relationship was never really about deep, philosophical conversations to begin with. But now? He barely talks to me at all. He doesn’t hang out with me… doesn’t let me visit the hospital with him… doesn’t invite me to spend time with his mom… Ever since the shooting, it seems like he only wants to see me for… tingly time.”

__

Jughead cleared his throat uncomfortably. He’d assumed, in a general sort of way, that Archie and Veronica were having sex, but he really preferred not to think about it in too much detail… or at all.

__

“Veronica,” he said when it became clear that she was waiting for some kind of an answer, “don’t think I’m not honoured by my sudden and unprecedented eligibility for ‘girl talk,’” he made air quotes around the phrase with his fingers, and immediately felt like a douche, “but… doesn’t this feel like more of a ‘Betty’ conversation?” It sure as hell felt like a Betty conversation to him. Betty would know what to say, how to respond… how to be honest, without being brutal. He, on the other hand, was wishing fervently he’d just stayed in Betty’s bed until Alice found him there. It wouldn’t have been fun… but it would have been a cakewalk compared to this conversation.

__

“I _did_ talk to her last weekend,” Veronica said quietly, still with that oddly vulnerable expression on her face.

__

“And?”

__

“And… she told me Archie was just reverting to his comfort zone… calling on his two best friends as he’s always done… sitting back and letting her take charge, also as he’s always done.”

__

“But?” Jughead prompted, with a vague, ridiculous thought that Betty’s editorial pen would flay him for his uninspired and mostly monosyllabic side of this very strange conversation.

__

“But I think it’s more than that,” Veronica answered, recovering some of her usual poise. “That may have covered it in the first day or two after the shooting… _maybe_. But we’re definitely into the land of choices now. And it seems to me that Archie is deliberately choosing to build a life that depends on pulling Betty into it in a starring role, while I get buried in the credits as ‘hot girl number three.’”

__

“It’s been a weird week,” Jughead offered, but he couldn’t shake his sudden, vivid memory of Archie’s phone call the previous morning, his insistence on having Betty come over for pancakes with his mom.

__

“It’s not just this week, Jughead,” Veronica said, “and I think you know that. Archie’s been acting weird – jealous and possessive whenever you and Betty are together – pretty much from the start. And it’s gotten worse – weirder – as time’s gone on. I _know_ you’ve noticed it, too.”

__

Jughead nodded reluctantly. “I do know what you mean,” he acknowledged. “Even Betty’s noticed it a few times when it was overt enough to weird her out. She didn’t really take it seriously, though.”

__

“Meaning?” Veronica’s arched brown made her look still more like herself, but Jughead still felt a need to tread carefully.

__

He paused a moment, searching for words and wishing fervently for more coffee. “Betty thought Archie was… confused,” he tried to explain at last. “Like, she knew he was acting weird or jealous, but she thought it was about something else… that he was just _imagining_ feelings for her that weren’t really there. She said if we could just stop him from _saying_ anything about it, just ignore it, he’d get over it pretty quick.”

__

Veronica nodded once. “And what do _you_ think?” she asked, as Jughead had known she would… and prayed she wouldn’t.

__

“I’m not exactly an impartial observer, V,” he pointed you. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m head over heels in love with this girl. I generally trust Betty’s judgement. But I don’t find it hard to believe that Archie – or anyone else, for that matter – has real, honest-to-God feelings for her. If you were to tell me Sheriff Keller and Principal Weatherbee were fighting a cage match over her affections, I’d tend to believe that, too. She’s brilliant and beautiful and lovable… and Archie knows her well enough that it’d be surprising if he hadn’t noticed it.”

__

“And that doesn’t worry you,” Veronica’s tone made the words a statement, rather than a question, yet simultaneously dripped with incredulity.

__

Jughead shrugged again. “Not unduly,” he said. “Like I said, she loves me. And, for that matter, she loves _you_. Even if we’re right and she’s wrong and Archie really does love her or want her or _something_ … she would never betray either one of us that way.”

__

Veronica nodded, but her sign was not a sound of relief. If anything, her expression turned even bleaker.

__

“I don’t doubt Betty’s love or her loyalty,” she said. “But I _do_ question her ability to see this thing clearly.”

__

“I’m not following you,” Jughead said honestly.

__

“Our Betty is terminally modest,” Veronica said crisply, “ _and_ she hates disappointing people.

__

“So _my_ worry is that, if she started to believe that Archie really _did_ want her, she’d be wracked with guilt at disappointing or hurting him, especially when his dad’s been shot. AND I’m concerned that she’d underrate how much giving in would hurt you, because in _her_ mind, she’s nothing special. I don’t find it hard to believe at all that Betty would cave to Archie if she assumed that hers would be the only heart broken.”

__

For probably the first time in his life, Jughead regretted finishing his meal. His bacon and eggs had abruptly turned to a leaden ball in the pit of his stomach.

__

Correctly interpreting whatever expression was on his face, Veronica grinned wryly. “See? What did I tell you?” she asked. “Girl talk ain’t for sissies.”

__


	55. Chapter 55

### Chapter 55

Jughead ditched school on Wednesday morning, reflecting as he trudged towards Riverdale Memorial Hospital that his mother would have called it “playing hooky.” His dad, of course, would have been more likely to call it "Wednesday."

He couldn’t recall the exact mechanism whereby he and Veronica had agreed to this plan; he had a shrewd suspicion that _she_ had done the planning, while _his_ contribution had been more on the “agreeing” side of the ledger. But whatever the decision tree that had brought him here… here he was. His foster parents wouldn’t be thrilled with his unauthorized absence from school, of course… if the reigning powers of South Side High exerted themselves to the extent of notifying them in the first place. Given the level of surprise he’d observed over his maintenance of a perfect attendance record, though (for the _entire_ duration of his week-and-a-half sojourn at SSH), he considered that possibility fairly remote.

Even if he did get caught, though, something about this incredibly stupid plan felt… right. Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t seen Fred since his forcible relocation, and he was eager to see the man who’d given him a home when his own family wouldn’t... the man who’d have continued to do so, willingly, had the Social Services system shown more tolerance towards his very human frailties.

Fred’s reaction to his arrival fully paid off the 70 minute walk it had taken to get him there; he was unfeignedly glad to see Jughead. He was pale and weak, more inclined to listen than to talk much, but he looked so much better than the last time Jughead had seen him, it was a struggle not to tear up. Conversation lagged a bit, though, after Jughead had provided a quick update on his new home and his school, and after a few minutes of silence, Fred seemed to drift off to sleep, leaving Jughead alone with Archie, whose reaction to his arrival had been noticeably cooler than Fred’s.

“Can we talk?” Jughead asked, sensing that this was his chance.

“Not in here,” Archie answered shortly. “Dad needs his rest.”

“Then, can we _walk_ and talk?” Jughead persisted, ignoring Archie’s surly tone.

Archie heaved an exaggerated sigh, but rose, nodding curtly towards the door. Jughead followed him, closing the door gently behind him as he stepped into the hall.

“Might as well,” Archie said bregrudgingly after the door had closed with a soft, but audible, click. “By the time Dad wakes up, I’ll have to be at school, or Mom and Betty’ll have my ass.”

Figuring he was unlikely to get a better segue than that, Jughead cleared his throat uncomfortably. “What about Veronica?” he asked.

“What about her?” Archie looked confused.

“Well, of the triad of women in your life, _she’s_ the probably the only one actually _interested_ in your ass,” Jughead said mildly. “Or the only one, now that your mom’s past the stage of wiping it for you,” he amended.

Archie’s expression of confusion had morphed into irritation before Jughead’s first sentence had left his mouth, and Jughead paused a moment to recognize that he’d never really appreciated his friend’s easygoing, slow-to-anger nature until it had so abruptly disappeared.

“Not funny,” Archie growled now.

“Not too worried about that,” Jughead answered evenly. “I’m serious about my question. _What about Veronica?”_

“None of your business,” Archie snapped.

“Actually, it kinda is,” Jughead answered quietly, “considering she’s taken to accosting me at the crack of dawn for,” he winced briefly, “ _girl talk_.”

Archie actually snorted with laughter at that, giving Jughead a brief glimpse of the friend who’d been closer to him than many actual brothers, for as long as he could remember. “You’re a _girl_ now he asked, sounding, not quite delighted, but something dangerously close to it.

“Yeah, it was a big surprise to me, too,” Jughead said dryly, “and I owe it all to you, my titian friend.”

“Trisha?” Archie’s confusion was back, and Jughead found himself in the nostalgically familiar situation of rolling his eyes in affectionate exasperation.

“ _Titian_ ,” he corrected. “I’m calling you a redhead, Archie.”

“And you couldn’t just call me a redhead and have done with it?” Archie wondered.

“I could, but it would lack poetry,” Jughead told him, enjoying himself too much to return immediately to his point.

“Poetry,” Archie scoffed disdainfully. “That wouldn’t even rhyme with anything.”

“Wishin’,” Jughead suggested solemly. “Dishin’. Fishin’…”

“Stop!” Archie was full-on laughing now, for the first time in recent memory. “For the love of God, Jug, _stop_! Stick to journalism.”

Jughead had to laugh, too, and he wished for a fleeting moment that he could just go with this… just stay in the unexpected grace of this return to the easy camaraderie he’d always taken for granted, but hadn’t felt with Archie in a very long time. They’d had fun together, of course, with Betty and Veronica and sometimes Kevin joining them. But one on one like this? He honestly couldn’t remember the last time, and he was loth to give it up. It felt like something precious that was inexorably slipping out of his grasp.

But school beckoned – at least one of them would need to put in an appearance, sooner or later – and he had, as an _actual_ poet would have it, promises to keep. So Jughead squared his shoulders, breathed in deeply, one last time, of this unexpected moment of perfect harmony. And then he shattered it.

“You’re treating Veronica like crap,” he said flatly, then winced as Archie’s head snapped back in obvious shock.

“What?” Archie’s tone convey shock, disbelief, but not anger… not yet. He was, thus far, too stunned for that.

“You heard me,” Jughead answered calmly, “and if you think about it for even a minute, I think you’ll know it’s true, because you’re _not_ an asshole, no matter how assiduously you’ve been impersonating one lately.”

Archie still seemed to be at a loss for words, so Jughead gladly filled in the silence. Now that he’d overcome his inertia, it actually felt good to speak up. Too many undercurrents had been festering for too long in Riverdale. It felt good, for once, to speak up rather than watching from the sidelines. “I’ve always thought of you as a good guy, Archie. But lately? It seems like all you do is use people.” Archie made a gesture of denial, but Jughead ignored him. “You used Val for her songwriting skills, and you’re using Veronica for sex, and you’re using Betty for every other thing that you don’t feel like handling for yourself.

“Veronica is your _girlfriend_ , Archie. And she’s starting to think she doesn’t matter to you… probably because of the fact that you’ve been treating her like she doesn’t.”

“I’m not,” Archie protested defensively.

“Aren’t you?” Jughead countered. “Because to hear Veronica tell it, you don’t talk to her, don’t spend time with her… don’t show much interest in her at all, except when you’re looking for a little horizontal exercise. Meanwhile, she sees you studying with Betty and pouring out your feelings to Betty and hosting breakfasts with your Mom and Betty… Arch, how’s that supposed to make her feel?”

“ _Betty_ ,” Archie said, an ugly sneer on his usually handsome face. “ _Now_ we get to the real point. This isn’t about Veronica being my girlfriend. It’s about Betty being _yours_. Admit it… this whole little ‘chat’ is because you’re afraid I’m gonna steal your girl.”

“Archie, that’s not what this is about,” Jughead began, trying to remain patient, but Archie gave no sign that he’d even hear him.

“All this sudden concern about _Veronica_ … You don’t give a rat’s ass about Veronica. You’re just protecting your turf,” Archie raved. “You know Betty and I have a history together. You know we’re spending more time together than you are… especially now that you’re living on the South Side. You know that she’s way out of your league…”

“First of all,” Jughead said evenly, controlling his rising temper with an effort, “Betty is no one’s ‘turf.’ She’s a person… an autonomous, sentient being who makes her own choices about how she spends her time, and follows her own heart on who she loves. Neither you nor I gets a vote on that.

“Second, if Betty ever left me for _any_ reason, I’d be… eviscerated. Completely destroyed. But her happiness means more to me than _mine_ does. So, if she really believed she’d be happier with someone else… I’d cut off my own foot before I’d stand in her way.” 

Archie snorted incredulously, but this time, it was Jughead who continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Third, Veronica was the one who sought me out. She’s unhappy that you’re treating Betty like your girlfriend, and her like the booty call.

“And finally… I _know_ you, Archie. I’ve known you for a long time. And you’ve been uncomfortable with Betty and me from the very start; it’s not just since your dad was shot. Sure, you’ve dialed up the crazy in a pretty major way this past week or so. But we’d all make allowances if that’s all it was.

“It’s not. Since Betty and I first got involved, we’ve _all_ seen you get jealous, and possessive, and you’ve even seemed like you were getting ready to make a move a time or two. And we’ve all let it ride. We’ve made excuses about how you’re confused or you’re going through a bad time or you were molested by Grundy. But it’s getting pretty old. For all of us.”

“So now you’re all talking about me,” Archie accused bitterly.

“No, Archie,” Jughead snapped impatiently, his sarcasm practically dripping from his words. “Your girlfriend and your two best friends are watching you implode while damaging every relationship you have. But we’re not terribly interested, so the subject has never come up in conversation.

“We _care_ about you, you idiot!” Jughead was surprised to find himself yelling, and he moderated his tone before he added, “And we’re worried.”

“I’m doing fine,” Archie insisted.

“No. You’re not,” Jughead answered flatly, suddenly filled with compassion for his friend. “You’re officially _not_. You’re not even in the neighbourhood of ‘fine.’”

Archie deflated. There was no other word for it. One moment, he was bristling, so filled with rage that it swelled him visibly. And the next? The fight went out of him, leaving him looking lost and confused and somehow diminished.

“So maybe I’m not fine, Juggie,” he said in a tone so defeated, it all but broke Jughead’s heart. “Maybe I’m barely hanging on right now. What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Ask for help?” Jughead suggested. “ _Talk_ about it? Maybe with your mom, who just so happens to be in town. Or your two best friends, who love you, even when you’re an idiot. Or your girlfriend, who’s really, _really_ trying to be there for you right now in more than just a naked way, even though it’s way outside her comfort zone”

Archie blushed at that, but shook his head, too. “I’m not too sure of that,” he said. “The girlfriend thing, I mean.”

“Why not?” Jughead asked. Archie kept walking, his head down. “Because of Betty?” he probed.

“I dunno, Jug. Maybe… yeah… at least partly. But mostly, Veronica and me… it just doesn’t feel right.”

“Your dad’s in the hospital, mine’s in jail, and I’m enrolled at South Side High,” Jughead pointed out. “There’s not _much_ that feels ‘right’ these days.”

But Archie was shaking his head again. “Before that,” he said. “You’re right, Jug. It’s never felt right seeing you and Betty together. I felt… left out. And lonely. And the more I saw you together, the worse it got. It was like, both of my best friends suddenly replaced me. And it sucked. But I knew you were happy… both of you.

“And Veronica is just so _hot_. And she’s funny and smart and… I really _am_ crazy about her, in some ways. And just waiting around for you and Betty to miss me or need me or whatever felt _awful_. So I just… decided I’d make it work with Veronica… make her my soul mate. And then I’d have somebody too, you know? I had it all worked out. And it felt like it was working. Or at least, it felt like it _could_ work.

“But then my dad got shot. And to be honest? I didn’t really want Veronica around. I didn’t much want you around, either,” Archie confessed, “although at least you didn’t irritate me just by existing the way she did. But really, I only wanted Betty. She _did_ feel right… _does_ feel right. Being with her is just… easy, and comfortable, and…

“Lookit. I know you really love her, Jughead, and I’m sorry about that. I am. But I think there’s something special between Betty and me… I think there always has been.”

“Of course there has, you doofus,” Jughead said, hearing his own voice like a bucket of cold water. “It’s called ' _friendship_ '.”

“Naw, Jug, it’s more than that… I know it,” Archie insisted. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. Well,” he laughed suddenly, abrasively, “I _do_ know why, of course, but it makes me sound like a jerk.”

Privately, Jughead thought Archie was already sounding like a jerk, considering he was rhapsodizing about Jughead’s girlfriend and ignoring the very existence of his own, but this didn’t seem like the moment to mention it. “What do you mean?” he asked instead.

“Aww, c’mon, man,” Archie half groaned, half laughed. “Don’t make me _say_ it!”

“Say what?” Jughead honestly had no idea what Archie was getting at, but he had a vague feeling he wasn’t going to like it. There was something odd – something hard and inhuman – about Archie’s demeanour now.

Archie sighed heavily. “Fine, dude. _Make_ me state the obvious. I prob’ly would’ve figured out I was in love with Betty a lot sooner if she were… you know…” he trailed off, as if Jughead should complete the sentence for himself, but Jughead didn’t have a clue. He shook his head impatiently.

“Sexier,” Archie finally concluded with a sigh of disgust, as if _Jughead_ were a total jerk for making him say it out loud. “or, you know… sexy, _period_. Like, _at all_. But she’s just so… wholesome. I mean, it’d be like trying to get turned on by a nun or your Sunday School teacher, he added.

“Of course, Veronica has ‘sexy’ in spades, but that’s just not enough for soulmates. And Betty has everything else, but her ‘sexy’ factor is about a negative five thousand. Together, they’d be the perfect girlfriend. Too bad I just can’t have them both…” 

Here, Archie stopped talking abruptly… probably because Jughead’s fist had just made hard, punishing contact with his mouth. Blood bloomed from his split lip, but before he could recover from his shock enough to speak, Jughead hit him again, this time in the stomach, and then body slammed him, hard enough to take them both to the ground.

Archie shoved him off angrily. “The hell, Jug?” he snarled. “You still gonna pretend you’re not just trying to keep me away from Betty?”

Jughead pushed himself to his feet and stood, chest heaving, staring at his best friend’s bloodied face. His ears were ringing oddly, and he felt a strange sense of unreality. He’d never hit anyone in his life, and now he’d started with _Archie_ , of all people?

But he could barely recognize Archie in the rage-twisted, sneering face before him. And his own rage was such that he could barely restrain himself from lashing out again.

“That’s not what this is,” he ground out, fists clenched at his sides.

“Of _course_ not,” Archie sneered.

“This is about _you_ , utterly disrespecting not one, but _two_ remarkable women, you stupid, stupid little boy,” Jughead continued. “’Have both of them?’ Screw you! You don’t deserve _either_ of them if you can’t see them as more than some cartoon caricature of your fantasies. Veronica is _more_ than just a sexy vamp. She’s smart and she’s strong and she’s kind and she’s navigated a pretty shitty time in her life while trying to build better friendships, and a better version of herself. And she deserves someone who can see far enough past her Wonder Bra to appreciate that. And Betty?” Jughead laughed harshly. “She’s _not_ some perfect, little princess, Arch. And, by the way, she _hates_ when people see her that way. But she’s got a dark side that scared the crap out of Chuck, and the balls to flatten a shed with a sledgehammer when she’s pissed… or to tell the entire town to get its shit together. And she’s sexy enough to melt my brain and make it leak out my ears just thinking about her.”

Archie started to get up, but Jughead shoved him down again. “You want to declare your love to Betty? Be my guest. I don’t own her. But pull yourself together first, asshole. She’s getting pretty close to her breaking point as it is, and the last thing she needs is the pressure of feeling sorry for you!”

Archie didn’t answer.

At least, not in words.

Instead, he lunged at Jughead’s knees, dropping him like a stone.


	56. Chapter 56

### Chapter 56

Jughead was waiting at the trailer when Betty arrived late that afternoon. It was barely 4:30, but the sky was almost fully dark, winter still devouring the daylight far too early.

Betty would have been irate if Jughead _hadn’t_ reached the trailer before her. He was closer, after all, and the text she’d sent him (“I’ll be at the trailer after school. So will you.”) had been less a suggestion than a summons. But his punctuality did very little to mollify her; she’d been running at a dangerous simmer since she’d received Archie’s text towards the end of lunch (“Won’t be at school today. Guess your boyfriend doesn’t like us spending so much time together.”), accompanied by a photo of his bloodied face. It was going to take a lot more than just showing up on time to cool her down.

Jughead was lying on the couch, one arm thrown over his face, when she walked in.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked without preamble. “Or maybe started drinking heavily? Maybe this is some twisted, Serpents initiation ritual? Please. Explain. Because I’m _trying_ to understand what on _earth_ possessed you to accost your best friend and try to beat the crap out of him. But I’m coming up pretty damned empty.”

Jughead didn’t move a muscle. “What did Archie tell you?” he asked, his voice oddly muffled by the arm over his face.

“Why?” Betty demanded. “Are you trying to gauge whether you can get away with lying?”

“I don’t lie to you,” Jughead answered simply, his voice still muffled. “I’m trying to work out exactly why you’re mad at me. There are, admittedly, several valid, potential reasons. But there’s also a very real possibility that Archie and I remember our… discussion differently. So you may be upset with me for some reason that’s not even on my radar. Knowing what Archie told you will help me know where to start.”

“Not much,” Betty answered succinctly, annoyed to find herself answering Jughead’s question when he hadn’t so much as sat up or looked her in the eye, “considering he didn’t come to school today. He just texted me a picture of his split lip and his two black eyes and said you didn’t like us spending so much time together."

“ _Son_ of a… no,” Jughead interrupted himself. “This has nothing to do with Mary. She’s a wonderful person who's been tragically afflicted with a total boob for a son.

“This had _nothing_ to do with you spending time with Archie,” he added.

“Really,” Betty answered skeptically. “So, you just randomly got inspired to walk across town to see your oldest friend, and while you were in the neighbourhood, you figured you’d hit him a little bit?”

Jughead heaved a sigh. At least, Betty thought he did. It was hard to tell, given his posture and her inability to see his face. “No,” he said, sounding exasperated. “I went to _talk_ to him, and he… pissed me off. So I hit him.”

“Would you at least put your arm down and look at me when we speak?” Betty exploded. His negligent pose had irritated her more with every moment that had passed since her arrival, and she was beyond done with it.

“I’d rather not,” Jughead answered, and something in his tone made her instantly, if belatedly, suspicious.

“Juggie?” she said sharply. He sighed again – she was sure of it this time – and lowered his arm, even as he began to struggle into a sitting position, but with a gasp, Betty dropped to her knees beside the couch, her hands on his shoulders, gently pressing him back down.

Both of Jughead’s eyes were swollen almost shut. His jaw was swollen and discoloured, both lips split. Archie’s selfie had looked like someone had hit him. Jughead looked like someone had hit him… with a truck. “You’re hurt," Betty crooned, stating the obvious. Her rage was momentarily forgotten as her eyes filled with tears, as she hesitated between her urge to take his battered face in her hands and kiss away his pain, and her fear that touching him would only hurt him more. At last, she settled for slipping her fingers into the thick silk of his hair at the back of his head, cradling him as she pressed a kiss into the hollow at the base of his throat. She opened her mouth to say more – she wasn’t sure what, exactly – but found herself abruptly choking on tears and helpless to do more than bury her face in his chest as she gave way to sobs. They only lasted a few minutes this time, and then she raised her head again to stare at his ravaged face.

“ _Archie_ did this to you?” she whispered in disbelief, and he nodded, but he seemed reluctant.

“I don’t think he meant to…” he began lamely, but Betty silenced him with a look.

“Would you accept that as an excuse if he did this to _me_?” she asked him pointedly.

Jughead made a noise she’d never imagined coming from him… one she could only describe as a growl.

“Exactly,” she said crisply. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. You should press charges,” she added.

“Against _Archie_?” Jughead asked incredulously.

“Against _anyone_ who hurts you like this,” Betty countered.

“I’m _not_ pressing charges against Archie,” Jughead said firmly. “He’s my _family_. He took me in when my real family wouldn’t. And I _did_ hit him first.”

“Did you hit him with a train?” Betty asked sarcastically. “Because, if you didn’t, _this_ ,” she gestured at his mangled face, “is a disproportionate response.” She could tell Jughead wasn’t convinced, but a more pressing issue occurred to her. “We’re going to take some pictures of this,” she announced, ignoring both his vehement gesture of denial and his subsequent wince of pain. “Just in case we ever need evidence.”

“Evidence?” Jughead echoed. “Betty… I’m _not_ pressing charges. And if Archie _does_? Do you really think any amount of ‘evidence’ is going to persuade Sheriff Keller that I’m not the guilty party? You know _exactly_ what he and his force think of my dad and me. No matter what evidence they turned up in their investigation, my dad was the only suspect they ever looked at for Jason’s murder. They tried to blame _me_ for torching Jason’s car, for crying out loud. And you and I were both _with_ Sheriff Keller when that happened. And here we are, weeks after _you_ proved that, whatever his faults, FP’s no murderer, and yet he’s still in jail and most of the town still has no idea that Clifford Blossom pulled the trigger… to say nothing of the business he hid behind his syrup empire. Keller and his lackeys had me branded as trouble even _before_ I joined the Serpents. At this point, if it comes down to my word against Archie’s, I’m done. A busload of nuns could swear out affidavits that they’d seen Archie attack me, unprovoked, and Sheriff Keller would still find a way to blame me… and since that’s _not_ what happened… since I was actually the attacker not the attackee… there’s not a shred of evidence in the world that’ll keep Keller from throwing the book at me.”

“Fine,” Betty said tersely, too frustrated and angry and scared to argue any further at the moment. “No charges. No evidence. But we’re taking the pictures anyway… for _my_ peace of mind” she added over his sputtered protest. 

It had been the right card to play. Jughead didn’t try to stop her as she moved around the room, turning on lights and trying to make the dingy room bright enough for clear pictures. She could feel tears threatening again… could feel, too, the itching in her palms, the urge to press her nails deep, but she fought it all down and focused on the job at hand. She wasn’t prepared to deal with this right now… with _any_ of it – Jughead bruised and battered and visibly hurting, with no faith that anyone with the power to help would care enough to do so. Archie, so far sunk in whatever was eating at him that he’d done _this_ … had willfully inflicted this damage on his very oldest friend. It was too much to process right now, so she did what she always did… pushed it down and pressed on, trying to make things better, trying to make it be okay, in any way that she could.

“Turn this way,” she instructed when she was satisfied the light was as good as it was going to get, making sure his face was fully lit, his wounds in sharp relief, and snapping away with her phone. “And… other side…” She scanned back through her shots quickly, discarding those that were blurry or too shadowed, making sure she had at least one clear picture of every bruise, every cut, every misshapen contour of the face she loved so well.

“Is it only your face?” she asked when she was satisfied that she had it all, her anxiety soothed with the familiar balm of _doing_ something.

“Pretty much,” Jughead answered, but now that she was listening for it, she could hear the evasiveness in his tone.

“Except…” she prompted him.

Jughead sighed heavily. “Except for my ribs,” he said reluctantly. “Well, ribs and stomach a bit. And… you know… my hands are kind of messed up.”

Betty glanced at his hands – his beautiful, poet’s hands – but quickly averted her gaze from his torn and bloody knuckles.

“The _hands_ , you did to yourself, she said severely. We’ll clean them up in a minute, but show me your ribs first.”

“It’s no big deal…” Jughead began, but trailed off as she glared at him. Rather than continuing, he lifted the hem of his shirt, wincing visibly at the movement. Betty reached to help him but, as his t-shirt slipped away, she gasped yet again, even as her tears resumed. His ribcage and abdomen looked even worse than his face which, until that moment, she wouldn’t have believed possible.

Dark, angry looking bruises covered his lightly muscled stomach. A gash on his ribcage looked as if it might have come from Archie’s class ring. Odd welts and swellings crisscrossed his torso, distorting its lean outlines. The entire effect was more than just gruesome; it was deeply disturbing. This didn’t look like the aftermath of a fight; it looked like attempted murder. She just couldn’t reconcile the violence, the brutality of what she was looking at with the sweet, silly, freckle-faced boy who’d lived next door to her for as long as she could remember.

“God, Jug,” she whispered. “Are you sure he didn’t break any ribs?”

“Pretty sure,” he answered, not quite meeting her gaze… almost as if he were ashamed for her to see his injuries. “It hurts like a mother, but I can breathe okay, and everything seems to move – or not move – as it should.”

Betty nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and started snapping photos again, focusing on his torso this time, not even pausing to wipe away the tears that were steadily falling. Her heart was breaking, not just for Jughead’s pain, but for Archie, who had somehow inflicted it. She’d been worried about Archie for a while, concerned about the aftermath of his relationship with Ms. Grundy, concerned about the brittle recklessness she sometimes sensed in him, about his relentless ping-ponging from one relationship to another as if _anything_ were better than his own company. But this? This went beyond anything she’d imagined. Something was badly broken in Archie, and she couldn’t begin to imagine how it was going to get fixed.

Jughead seemed to realize she was nearing her breaking point. He offered no further resistance or comment, just sat or stood or turned as she directed while she quietly got all the photos she wanted.

“So, what _haven’t_ I seen yet,” she asked shrewdly, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Nothing… much,” he amended hastily. “A couple of bruises on my legs where he kicked me. Nothing major. _Honestly_ ,” he insisted under her hard gaze.

“Prove it,” was her only response.

Blushing slightly – at least, she _thought_ he was blushing; it was hard to tell under the crusted blood and bruises – Jughead unbuttoned his jeans and let them fall. Betty was relieved to see that he hadn’t been lying. Yes, he had bruises on his legs, one large one on his hip, but nothing that he couldn’t have incurred in a minor fall or even an afternoon of horsing around with friends at the river.

“All right,” she acknowledged with a sigh. “You can lie down now. Is the light hurting your eyes?” Jughead nodded miserably. Without comment, Betty moved around the room again, this time extinguishing the lights until the room was shrouded in darkness, except for one small lamp on the end table behind Jughead’s head, casting enough light for her to see, without exposing his tender eyes to any glare. She sank down again on the floor beside the couch, resting her head against his thigh where the pressure was least likely to hurt him. For a few moments, they sat in silence, before Betty framed the question that was now uppermost in her mind.

“What did you guys fight about anyway?” she asked softly.”

“It’s… a little hard to explain,” Jughead temporized.

“Please try,” she answered, still softly, but in a tone that brooked no compromise.

“Archie… said some things,” Jughead tried. Betty just waited without comment. “I really do think he has a genuine thing for you, by the way,” Jughead added inconsequentially, and Betty could feel her eyebrows approaching her hairline.

“I hope you’re about to assure me that’s not why you fought,’ she said with some asperity.

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “It’s not nearly that simple. I’m just telling you, I think you’ve been underestimating how hung up on you Archie is.”

“Pffft,” Betty rolled her eyes. “At _most_ he has a case of FOMO… and a healthy terror of what committing to Veronica might demand of him. _He_ likes things easy, and _she’s_ not exactly low maintenance.”

“I think it’s more than that,” he insisted quietly.

“But that’s not why you fought,” she answered skeptically. This story wasn’t making a whole lot of sense to her. “ _That_ was because…”

“Archie said some things. Yeah,” Jughead nodded confirmation.

Betty waited a moment before replying, standing and moving closer to the lamp. She lifted his head gently off the couch and then sat, cradling his head in her lap, her fingers entwined in his hair before continuing.

“About me?” she guessed.

“You… and Veronica,” Jughead confirmed. Betty raised her eyebrows again, even as she moved her fingers absently through the silken strands of his hair, scratching and massaging gently at the base of his skull and eliciting a pleasurable moan from him. She smiled a little, happy to have given him some pleasure in the midst of all his pain. “That feels incredible, by the way,” he told her and her smile broadened a bit. “You should never _not_ do that.”

Betty didn’t reply; she just waited. One of her favourite things about Jughead was that he always knew when she was serious about something, and he treated it seriously. She was deadly serious about finding out what had happened between Archie and Juhgead today, so she knew that if she waited long enough, Jughead would expand on his story.

Sure enough, after a few more moments of silence, Jughead huffed out his breath resignedly and she knew she’d won. “I don’t like repeating it,” he said. “Because… it’s bad. And it’s going to make it seem like I’m trying to make him look bad, which I’m _not_. _And_ I don’t like repeating it because some of it might hurt you.”

He paused again, as if hoping Betty would interrupt him, let him off the hook. Too bad, though, she thought ruthlessly. She wasn’t speaking again until she got the whole story.

“He said… he wished he could be with _both_ of you,” Jughead admitted reluctantly. “He said that _together_ , you and Veronica would have everything he wanted.”

“Don’t _most_ guys fantasize about having two women?” Betty asked practically. Sure, her personal reaction to the thought tilted heavily towards "ew,” but a harmless and not-terribly-original fantasy hardly seemed worth the level of damage Jughead and Archie had inflicted on one another today.

“ _I_ don’t,” Jughead answered pointedly, meeting her gaze as directly as he could through the swollen slits of his eyes, and she felt her heart flutter at his intensity. “But… that wasn’t what he was talking about anyway. This wasn’t some weird, Hefner-esque sexual fantasy. He was talking about a ‘relationship.’ He was… he was saying that Veronica had nothing to offer but sex appeal, and that you…” he looked at her apologetically.

“What, dammit? What?” Betty prompted when he hesitated.

“That you had everything _except_ sex appeal,” he explained in a rush.

For a moment, they sat in silence while Betty took in what she’d just heard. And then, she started to giggle. She tried to stop, she really did, but she just couldn’t help herself. Jughead was staring at her, his injuries momentarily forgotten, obviously both confused and concerned by her reaction, and his mouth-agape expression only made her laugh harder.

Eventually, he managed to collect his wits enough to speak. “This isn’t quite the reaction I’d expected,” he observed mildly. Betty had started to recover herself, but that threatened to set her off again.

“I’m sorry, Juggie,” she managed to gasp. “ _Nothing_ about this is funny, really. It’s all just awful. But… it’s just so ridiculous. You fought with Archie… because he _doesn’t_ think I’m sexy?”

Put that way, even Jughead had to grin reluctantly. “Well, I do love a good plot twist,” he said ruefully.

“And you came away from this conversation, or confrontation, or whatever it was… thinking Archie genuinely has feelings for me?” Betty asked in disbelief.

“You didn’t hear him, Betts,” Jughead began, but Betty cut him off.

“I’m starting to think _you_ didn’t hear him,” she said. “Don’t you think, Jug, that if Archie honestly felt more for me than friendship, that would inspire him to see me as sexy? I mean, I know I’m not as glamorous as Veronica or as edgy and artistic as Val. But…”

“But nothing,” Jughead interrupted firmly. “You are _gorgeous_ , and impossibly sexy, and completely beyond comparison.”

Betty could feel her cheeks flushing at his adamence, but couldn’t abandon her point. “But _you’re_ in love with me,” she pointed out. “Before we got together, I’ll bet it never crossed your mind to think of me in that way.”

“Cooper, I’ve been in love with you for most of my life,” Jughead said with unmistakable sincerity, and Betty felt her jaw drop. “Since we were little kids. And ‘sexy’ really wasn’t on my radar when we were in kindergarten. But you’ve been my personal definition of what ‘sexy’ is for as long as I’ve had one; you’re _it_ , the gold standard, the measuring stick… the one everyone else is compared to and found lacking.”

Betty’s breath caught in her throat. Even through the bruises and the swelling, there was no mistaking the heat in Jughead’s eyes, the honesty in his tone. He _meant_ every incredible, unbelievable, unsuspected thing he was saying, and for a moment, she was completely distracted from the larger issue of their conversation.

“You… had feelings for me, before…” she asked wonderingly.

Jughead shrugged dismissively, his gaze sliding away as if he were suddenly shy, as if he’d revealed more than he’d intended to. “Before _everything_. Always. Yeah,” he answered.

“But… you never said anything,” Betty protested.

Jughead shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the turn their conversation had taken. “There didn’t seem to be much point,” he answered. “Not to bring up old wounds, but it was always pretty clear who held your heart. Until you and I started working together on the _Blue and Gold_ , I always figured saying anything would just be… awkward and horrible and would make you, you know…” he hesitated, “feel sorry for me. And maybe stop being my friend. Didn’t seem worth the risk.”

Betty was at a loss for words. Guilt and gratitude, wonder and wistfulness were swirling within her, leaving her off-balance and unsure of how to proceed. But Jughead clearly understood her struggle.

“I didn’t tell you that to make you feel bad,” he said clearly. “My point was just that, you’re not somehow _less than_ Veronica or Val or any other girl. You _are_ sexy, and _not_ just because I’m in love with you…” And with that comment, Betty remembered what they’d been discussing in the first place.

“Well, you can tell me more about _that_ a little later,” she said with a teasing smile. “I have a feeling that could be an enjoyable... _conversation_. But don’t you think, Jug, if Archie were _really _in love with me… he’d start to find me sexy, too? That whole comment… it just proves my point that, whatever’s driving his weirdness, it’s not actually love for me. And apparently it isn’t love for Veronica either; what a crappy thing to say.” She reflected back on what Jughead had told her, and found herself getting belatedly angry. “What an _ass_!” she said hotly. “He doesn’t _deserve_ Veronica!”__

____

“Or you,” Jughead concurred.

____

“Well, he doesn’t _have _me,” Betty pointed out, “nor will he ever. But he does have Veronica, and I really thought they had something special.”__

______ _ _

“Maybe they did… or maybe they could… “ Jughead said, “but only if Archie got his head out of his ass for long enough to really see who Veronica is.”

______ _ _

“So, Archie was an idiot, and said some stupid stuff about Veronica and me,” Betty summarized, “and you decided the logical way to deal with it was to start a fist fight with someone who’s twice your size?”

______ _ _

“He isn’t _twice_ my size,” Jughead protested defensively. 

______ _ _

“ _Really_?” Betty challenged him. “ _That’s_ your focus right now? Not really the point, Jug.”

______ _ _

“It is to me,” Jughead grumbled, and she started giggling again. She sobered quickly, though.

______ _ _

“Look, Jughead. I get that you don’t want to press charges against Archie. I’m not even sure you’re wrong about that. But… we have to do _something_. This,” she gestured to Jughead’s battered face and body, “is not okay. It’s not normal. It’s not _Archie_. And if it keeps happening, I can’t see it ending well for him.”

______ _ _

Jughead nodded slowly. “You’re right,” he agreed heavily. “He’ll be serving time alongside my dad if he keeps dishing out beatings like this one. But… can we save Archie from himself some other time? I’m too sore to figure out any answers right now.”

______ _ _

__

______ _ _

“Fair enough,” Betty agreed, returning her fingers to the hair at the nape of his neck. “In that case, how about you tell me more about how sexy I am, while I see if I can’t find a way to make you feel better?”

______ _ _

__

______ _ _


	57. Chapter 57

### Chapter 57

“That was good, Mom,” Archie said, pushing away his bowl. 

“It was canned tomato soup and grilled cheese,” said Mary dismissively, “assuming processed slices qualify as ‘cheese.’”

“It was my _favourite_ ,” Archie countered. “Just like you used to make me when I was little.”

“Mother of the year, right here,” Mary said ruefully, even as she nodded.

“You _are_ ,” Archie insisted. “You were working and going to law school, and you still always took time to make me a snack and sit with me while I ate it.”

“Only when you were sad or in trouble,” Mary told him. “The rest of the time, your dad and I practically had to tie you to a chair to get you to sit still long enough to eat. You wanted to be at the river… or in the treehouse… or at the park… If you’d had a happier childhood, you might have starved.”

“Nah,” Archie grinned as he shook his head. “Betty’d never have let that happen; she always brought snacks wherever we went. And I was plenty happy,” he added.

“I’d say you were at that,” Mary agreed, ruffling his hair as she leaned around him to grab his dishes and move them to the sink. She tsked softly, disapprovingly as the movement brought her level with his blackened eyes.

“So which is it this time?” she asked conversationally.

“Which what?” Archie asked, startled out of a memory of Betty, scrambling into the treehouse they’d helped their fathers build on the property line between their yards, her backpack full of apples and string cheese and graham crackers she’d baked herself.

“Sad or in trouble,” his mother clarified.

“Neither,” he said shortly, his smile fading.

“Archie,” Mary said chidingly, “I may not be around as much as I’d like to be, but I’m still your mother. Now, I know you’ve never been Riverdale’s most enthusiastic student, but if that were why you were ditching school this afternoon, I have to think you’d be spending your illicit freedom doing something other than eating soup with your mother.”

“I’m not ‘ditching,’” Archie said, annoyed. “I’m _injured_.”

Mary snorted, but didn’t answer immediately. She walked around the table, sat down facing him, and levelled him with a look that made him squirm as if he were back in kindgarten and having to explain why he’d put a frog in his Sunday School teacher’s handbag.

“You’ve been knocked around worse than this in every third football game you’ve played since you were nine years old,” she said in a no-nonsense voice he remembered well. “You’ve finished games after sprained ankles, a dislocated shoulder once, and what later turned out to be a mild concussion. And didn’t you just recently play guitar with a broken hand?

“I’m not buying it, Archie. There’s no reason in the world you couldn’t be at school this afternoon. And a couple of black eyes has never been enough to drive you to tomato soup and grilled cheese before.

“So let me ask you again. Sad? Or in trouble?”

“Neither!” Archie exploded, goaded beyond endurance. “If anything, I’m pissed!”

“Pissed at whom?” Mary pressed, not even batting an eye at his rudeness.

“At Jughead, Mom… the one who did this to me?” Archie said sarcastically. 

“Why?” Mary asked.

“Why am I pissed?” he asked incredulously, gesturing to his face. She couldn’t be serious, could she?

“No, Archibald,” she answered coolly. “I’m asking _why_ he hit you… several times, from the looks of things.”

Archie looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “Does it matter?” he asked.

“Well,” Mary said reflectively, “you two have been friends since you were both in Pampers. You’ve argued about toys and treehouse rules, and your dad has fired Jughead’s father on at least three separate occasions that I know about. And in all that time, and all those conflicts, to the best of my knowledge, Jughead has never so much as given you a noogie, much less a black eye. So, yeah. I’m guessing whatever prompted this unprecedented redecoration of your face matters… if only as a clue to whether you’re sad, or in trouble.”

“I _told_ you, neither!” Archie all but shouted.

“And _I_ told you I wasn’t buying it,” Mary said affably. “I’m still not. What I _do_ believe is that I asked you a question to which I still haven’t received an answer.” Her tone was almost comically pleasant, but with an underlying steel that Archie didn’t miss. “ _Why_ did Jughead hit you?"

“He’s jealous,” Archie said, hating the petulance of his own voice in his ears, "about Betty and me.”

“Betty… his girlfriend?” Mary asked. “Or did you mean to say ‘Veronica,’ _your_ girlfriend?”

“ _Why_ does everybody keep calling Veronica my ‘girlfriend?’” Archie exploded, slamming both fists down on the table.

“Unless the _table_ has been talking about you and Veronica, Archie, I’d say your violence is a little misplaced.” His mother’s tone was mild, but her expression was both stern and a little sad. “And I can’t speak for ‘everyone,’ but as the person who’s been doing your laundry for the past week, I can tell you that both your sheets and your underwear smell like Veronica’s perfume... among other things. Your father mentioned that you didn’t sleep at home on the night of the Jubilee. And when I vacuumed your room this morning, I ran across a pair of purple silk panties that wouldn’t fit you if you greased your rear end and used a shoehorn. Not to mention that you’ve disappeared with Veronica after your homework’s done every night since I got here, only to come home with half your buttons askew. So that’s why _I’m_ calling her your girlfriend.

“I think the real question is… why aren’t you?”

Archie felt himself flushing painfully, a hot wave of crimson flooding his cheeks. It was a flush compounded of the awkwardness of Mary’s very clear awareness of his sex life, the censure in her tone as she challenged his rejection of the ‘girlfriend’ label, and his striking, but often unfortunate, colouring.

But Mary was still waiting for his answer. “Mom…” he began awkwardly, “Veronica’s… great. She’s just… she’s not really ‘girlfriend’ material.” He swallowed hard, held his breath, prayed fervently that his mother would accept that answer at face value without asking him to expand.

“And Betty is?” she prompted, dashing his hopes even as he resisted the urge to squirm under her direct gaze.

“Well, _obviously_ ,” he said eagerly. He was more than ready to sing Betty’s praises, especially if it meant leaving the sex-related portion of the conversation behind. “She’s _perfect_ … sweet and smart and kind and…”

“Did something _happen_ between you and Betty?” Mary interrupted him to ask. “The purple silk didn’t really seem her style, but I shouldn’t presume too much. Is _that_ why Jughead…”

“Oh, God, Mom! No!” he exclaimed in horror, unable to repress a slight shudder at the idea of Veronica’s overtly sexy lingerie on sweet, pure Betty. “Nothing happened! It’s more… a question of what’s _going_ to happen.”

“So… what’s _going to_ happen?” Mary asked, still watching him minutely. Her scrupulous attention, her unwavering focus on him, was beginning to rub his nerves raw.

“C’mon, Mom,” Archie cajoled. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Mary shook her head mutely, so he continued. “We’ll end up together, sooner or later. End game. True love. You know… soul mates.”

“You’ve talked about this?” Mary asked him searchingly. “You and Betty?”

“Yeah,” Archie answered absolutely. “Well… not recently,” he amended. “It was a few months ago. Before… you know.”

“Before Betty and Jughead?” Mary clarified, and Archie nodded. “So, you two discussed being soul mates… and then she turned around and started dating Jughead?”

Archie’s flush, which had begun to recede, rolled back in full force. “Not exactly,” he muttered.

“So what, _exactly_?” Mary pressed.

He sighed impatiently, irritated again with his mother. “After Homecoming, she told me she wanted us to be together and I…” he paused, trying to find a way to avoid the bald truth. He’d never been able to lie successfully to his mother, though; courtrooms must have been a breeze for her. “I told her I didn’t feel the same way.”

“You turned her down,” Mary said flatly, and he nodded. “And she started seeing Jughead.” He nodded again, feeling his own lips twist into a grimace at the thought. “And today, all these months later, what happened was…” she trailed off expectantly.

Archie was scowling darkly now; he could feel it. It was more dignified than blushing, to be sure, but only marginally so.

“Jughead showed up at the hospital,” he began, feeling his anger rise again as he remembered the scene with Jughead. “He started laying into me about Veronica… saying I was treating her like crap…”

“Veronica?” Mary interrupted. “I thought you said you fought about Betty?”

“That came later,” Archie said dismissively. “He started with Veronica, said I wasn’t treating my ‘girlfriend’” he made scornful quotation marks around the word with his fingers, “fairly.”

“And” Mary prompted him again.

“And I told him she wasn’t really girlfriend material… all flash, no substance, you know?”

Mary hmmmed noncommittally.

“So Jughead asked if the real problem was my feelings for Betty.”

“Uh-hunh,” Mary still wasn’t saying much.

“I wasn’t going to _lie_ to him, Mom,” Archie said righteously. “So I told him, yeah, sorry if it hurts him, but Betty and I _belong_ together.”

“Even though you turned her down,” Mary probed, her tone making the words a statement rather than a question.

Archie shook his head impatiently. “That wasn’t…” he spluttered. “I mean, _yeah_ , I did. But that was just because I hadn’t figured out my true feelings for Betty yet then. You know? It’s like, I never really _saw_ her that way because she’s not more… sexy.”

“And that’s when Jughead hit you?” his mother asked him, seeking confirmation. When you told him that you’re in love with _his_ girlfriend, not yours, but you didn’t figure it out sooner because she’s not _sexy_ enough?”

Archie nodded. 

Mary rose from her seat and came around the table to stand behind him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as she dropped a light kiss on his hair.

“Oh, kiddo,” she sighed softly. “You’re my only child, the light of my life, and I love you to distraction. But right now? I want to hit you myself.” Archie’s head snapped back in surprise at her unexpected words, but Mary wasn’t waiting for a response as she headed towards the door. 

“I rinsed your dishes for you,” she called back over her shoulder as she left the room. “Please remember to put them in the dishwasher. And try to stop being an idiot.”


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** I have fallen behind again on responses to comments. Those are forthcoming, but in the meanwhile, these crazy kids have been waiting around for their next move for entirely too long. Chapter tonight, responses to comments in the next few days. Suffice to say that I've read them, and loved them, and thank you ALL from the bottom of my heart! This chapter previously showed up as Chapter 59, because I had a draft chapter showing up as a duplicate, which threw off my numbering. 58 is the correct numbering for this one, though.

### Chapter 58

Jughead stayed in FP’s tiny shower cubicle, propped against the wall for support, until the sharp spray that stung his cuts even as it soothed his bruises turned icy cold. He had no idea how long he’d been in here, watching the blood and grime of his fight swirl around his toes before disappearing down the drain. A goodly portion of his tears was mixed with all the rest, although the evidence was not so visible. But he’d cried in here, silently, helplessly, until it seemed the cleansing water had scoured his emotions along with his abrasians.

He’d cried for his own pain, his battered body aching in ways that nothing in his previous experience had prepared him for. His childhood had been far from idyllic, but it had never been violent, and while he’d had his share of normal childhood bumps and bruises, he honestly couldn’t remember a time someone had intentionally hurt him.

He’d cried for his fractured friendship with Archie. He’d thought nothing could be worse than the loneliness he'd felt last summer, his best friend seeming to pull away from him more and more. They’d regained some ground since then, reaffirmed their life-long brotherhood, and picked up, more or less, where they’d left off. A little cooler, perhaps… a little more distant… but together, in spite of it all.

Until today, when he’d found out just how far Archie’s friendship for him would stretch before it snapped, leaving him, Jughead, broken and bleeding in the street as his oldest friend walked away without a backward glance. As much as Archie’s violence had hurt, it was his indifference that had inflicted the deepest wound.

And he’d cried in simple, incredulous relief that Betty was here, right outside this door. He’d felt… ashamed… unworthy… unlovable in the aftermath of the beating Archie had administered with eyes that barely seemed to recognize, or even _see_ Jughead. As he’d dragged himself back to the trailer… as he’d lain, hour after hour on the couch, hurting too badly to make his way to FP’s bed, a bleak, hopeless certainty had taken root in his mind: he would lose Betty. His mother had left him, and Archie had turned on him, and now, Betty would finally see in him exactly what they had seen… nothing worth staying for.

So fully had that conviction taken possession of his mind – reinforced by the terse text she’d sent him – he’d actually imagined when she arrived that she was here to break up with him.. possibly after telling him, with her usual, pithy honesty, just how he’d disgusted her. The arm over his face had been intended less to conceal his wounds than to hide the tears that were stinging his eyes and leaking past his temples and into his hair.

But Betty was… Betty and, as usual, she’d blown past every one of his expectations with her fearless, ferocious sweetness, just as she’d been doing for all the years he’d known her and loved her without ever dreaming his love would be returned. She’d listened to him… she’d _seen_ him… and she’d cared, yet again, enough to stay.

And so, more than the pain in his body or the agony in his heart, he’d cried with the sweet realization that he wasn’t alone.

As if to punctuate that thought, he heard a soft tap at the door, followed by a creaking hinge and a cold draft as Betty obviously opened the door a crack to check on him. She must have been listening for the water to turn off.

“Are you decent?” she called softly, a note of gentle teasing in her tone.

“In the _shower_? Hell, no!” he called back in the same spirit, not bothering to push himself off the wall… not even sure he could have stood without its support.

“Perfect,” Betty said in a comically lascivious voice, and he couldn’t help but laugh. That laughter, that moment, made him fall in love with her just a little bit more, unable to believe she’d brought him laughter even in the shadow of this afternoon’s despair.

“I have a towel for you here,” she added. “Can I help you out of there?”

“Unless you’d prefer to join me _in_ here,” he agreed, and Betty laughed too.

“Is there any hot water left?” she asked skeptically as she pulled back the curtain.

“No,” he admitted, lifting his head enough to grin wryly at her. “But I’ll keep you warm.”

“By doing what?” she asked, one eyebrow raised even as she wrapped both a towel and her arms around him. “Falling on me?”

“You betcha,” he answered, his teeth beginning to chatter as the open door dispersed the lingering heat.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Betty said, rolling her eyes. At least, Jughead _assumed_ she was rolling her eyes. He was too tired to lift his head and check, but she _sounded_ as though a heavy eye roll had accompanied her words.

“Sit,” Betty added, closing the toilet lid and covering it with another towel – for cushioning? for warmth? – before all but pushing him down onto it. She closed the bathroom door to prevent any further heat loss, then rummaged in the medicine cabinet above the sink for a moment before kneeling in front of him. In the cramped room, he had to spread his legs slightly to make space for her, a manoeuvre that made him acutely conscious that, although she was fully dressed, _he_ was naked except for the too-thin towel around his shoulders.

“Give me your hands,” she commanded before he could get too many ideas… not that his body would’ve been in any condition to act on them anyway. He obeyed wordlessly, and she began to smear ointment over his split knuckles before bandaging them tenderly.

“You don’t have to do that,” he protested weakly, mindful of her strictures on the self-inflicted nature of his hands’ wounds, even as he prayed silently that she wouldn’t stop.

“You did something similar for me once,” she replied without looking up from her self-appointed task.

“True enough,” Jughead acknowledged. They didn’t speak again until she had finished with his hands and was applying a butterfly bandage to a cut near his left eye.

“Speaking of which,” Jughead said, as if no time had elapsed since their last exchange, “where’s all this stuff,” he gestured vaguely at the seemingly inexhaustible supply of bandages and antibacterial ointment, “coming from? I seem to recall I’d pretty much cleaned out FP’s first aid supplies the night of homecoming.”

“You did,” Betty shrugged, now rubbing something cold and yellow that smelled like death into a bruise near his shoulder. Jughead grabbed the tube she’d left, uncapped, on the sink and read it. It was, apparently, arnica gel… whatever the fridge that was. “I replenished.”

“When?” Jughead asked.

“The morning I fixed FP’s truck,” Betty answered, still focused on bandaging his cuts and rubbing cold, sticky yellow goo onto the worst of his bruises, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was already half-aroused from their suggestive position and his own nudity.

“You ‘replenished’ the medicine cabinet _and_ rebuilt my dad’s engine before 9 a.m.?” Jughead asked incredulously.

“It _wasn’t_ an engine rebuild, Jug,” Betty said dismissively, “but otherwise… yeah.” Her tone seemed to imply it was no big deal.

“Why?” Jughead asked.

Betty shrugged again. “It didn’t seem fair for FP to come home to an empty medicine cabinet, just because _I’m_ bat shit crazy,” she said, clearly referring to her propensity to dig her nails into her own palms when under emotional strain.

“You’re _not_ ,” Jughead protested through an involuntary burst of laughter. Betty so rarely used vulgar language that it tended to crack him up when she did. “And it could be _years_ before my dad gets back here.”

“Not if I can help it,” she muttered stubbornly. “Done,” she added, leaning back a bit.

“I feel like a mummy,” Jughead pretended to grumble, surveying his personal landscape of white bandages against his already pale skin. Secretly, though, he was delighted. Although he’d bandaged plenty of skinned knees and scraped palms for Jellybean – and himself – over the years, he honesty couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken such care of him.

“I texted Bruce and Molly to say we were having dinner here,” Betty said, ignoring his comment. “They’ll pick you up at 9:30.”

“Pick _us_ up,” Jughead countered quickly, even as he marveled at her organizational skills. “Like hell are you walking home from the South Side at night.”

“Veronica’s sending Smithers,” Betty replied. “It will get you home sooner _and_ help to preserve the fiction that I’ve been with her all evening.”

Jughead nodded appreciatively. “As devious as you are beautiful,” he observed. “Be still my heart.”

“It’s not your ‘heart’ I’m worried about,” Betty answered with a significant glance at his groin, and Jughead felt himself flushing with a mixture of mild embarrassment and intensified arousal. It would seem she hadn’t been as oblivious to his condition as he’d thought during her attention to his wounds.

“The most beautiful woman in the world at my feet,” he said, trying to be matter-of-fact about it. “How’d you _expect_ me to respond?”

Now Betty was flushing, too.

“Well, _someone’s_ clearly been kissing the blarney stone,” she said awkwardly.

“Or taken veritaserum,” he countered, referencing the truth potion they’d discussed so often the summer they were reading the final Harry Potter book – and rereading the earlier books – together.

Betty made a slight, scoffing sound of protest, but her eyes were sparkling above her still-pink cheeks, and Jughead felt a tug in the vicinity of his heart still more compelling than the one in his groin.

“You know that I love you, right?” he asked impulsively.

“That works out nicely then,” she said, wringing his heart with the memory of the first time he’d said those words to her, “because it appears that I love you rather a lot, too.”

“So,” she added conversationally, after a moment in which they’d just stared at each other, smiling goofily, “bed? Or food?”

“An impossible choice,” Jughead groaned theatrically through his emotion-thickened throat, “made easier only by the fact that the proverbial cupboard is entirely, and quite literally, bare.”

“Not _entirely_ ,” Betty corrected, not quite meeting his eyes. “I sort of… replenished that, too.”

“How much were you _carrying_ that morning?” he asked in disbelief, struggling to imagine Betty jogging through the dark streets of pre-dawn Riverdale, carrying her automotive tools, a fully-stocked first aid kit, and a sack of groceries.

“Separate occasions,” she answered laconically.

“ _What_ separate occasion?” he asked suspiciously.

“The occasion two days ago when I broke in,” Betty said coolly.

“Broke in?” Jughead echoed faintly.

“I got a ride,” Betty said defensively… in lieu, it would appear, of explaining herself.

“You got a ride,” Jughead repeated, feeling vaguely as though he’d slipped into the Twilight Zone. The imagery was just too surreal. “To my father’s trailer… where you broke in… in order to restock the pantry? What are you - Bizarro Golidlocks?”

Betty was blushing again. “I like spending time with you here,” she said softly, suddenly shy. “And you like to eat. I thought, if we were going to hang out here more… we should be prepared.”

“You restocked the pantry specifically so we could spend more time here together?” Jughead repeated. Betty nodded, and he found himself grinning goofily again. He was just so _happy_ that she'd put such effort into making a space for them to share, almost as if she, like him, were starting to think of this trailer as home. “Then take me to bed, or lose me forever,” he quoted dramatically.

“Really?” Betty asked, sounding surprised. “You don’t want to eat first?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jughead waggled his eyebrows suggestively. The look he gave her was loaded with heat – he could feel it himself – and he was gratified to see her bite her lip as an answering spark kindled in her eyes.


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** First, a word of caution. Chaste Betty and Jughead have once again left the building, and this chapter falls solidly into the category of "mature." If that's not for you, please skip ahead to chapter 60. Second, for purposes of clarity, this chapter is _actually_ chapter 59. The previous chapter, correctly numbered 58, was originally posted at 59 because a sneaky draft was messing with my mind and numerical literacy. Finally, in the world of self-justification, I freely acknowledge that this one's been a long time coming. My PC died on Christmas day, and I've been relying on my phone for typing and tagging. Throw in three kids during cold and flu season, and things have just been taking longer than usual. The computer is back, the kids are on the mend, and better days are ahead! Thanks, as ever, for the wonderful comments! They inevitably make my day (and will eventually get answered individually)!

### Chapter 59

Nerves assailed Betty as she followed Jughead into the trailer’s one bedroom, wincing at the sight of the patchwork of bandages and bruises beneath the towel he still wore like a shawl. She’d been so focused on tending to individual wounds – first with lighting and camera, then with ointment and bandages – that it’d been a while since she’d looked at his condition more globally. Now that she did, the wreckage of his beautiful body took her breath away.

But it wasn’t Jughead’s injuries that were making her nervous… or only very peripherally. It wasn’t the idea of being intimate with Jughead either; she fully intended to do that, if it could be managed without hurting him. True, the physical side of their relationship had intensified pretty dramatically in the very recent past. But she loved Jughead, and she trusted him, and she’d been looking forward to being alone with him back here again pretty much since they’d left last weekend. No, taking naked Jughead into the bedroom was not a source of any kind of stress for Betty. All she felt on that count was eagerness.

But she was nervous nonetheless. Jughead was badly hurt. It hurt just to _look_ at him, and she desperately didn’t want to hurt him more. She’d have happily surrendered the hazy, heated fantasies she’d been weaving all week about what it would be like when they were together again, just to spare him pain. But it had become abundantly clear as she’d knelt between Jughead’s legs, playing nurse, that there was one, fairly significant portion of his anatomy that wasn’t wounded at all… that seemed, in fact, to be in robust good health.

All of which had led her to settle on a fairly specific course of action… one designed to focus on the part of Jughead that wasn’t hurting, while preventing him from overexerting hiimself… one that she was, frankly, terrified to pursue. She was afraid of making a fool of herself… afraid of doing this wrong, of her inexperience making her clumsy. And she was afraid of what it meant that she was once again taking the initiative. She remembered, of course, just how enthusiastically Jughead had welcomed her assertive approach last Saturday. But more compelling in her mind that the memory of his astonished, delighted passion was the torrent of hateful words that were playing on a continuous loop in her mind… words hissed in her mother’s most poisonous whisper… nasty names for “girls like her…” viciously pointed questions about what the town would think of her if they knew what she was doing... dire warnings of the bleak fate that awaited girls who failed to behave like ladies.

Against her nerves, against her mother’s relentless voice in her head, Betty had what felt like only the feeblest of weapons: her own desire to be close to Jughead… and her desperate wish to replace at least some portion of his pain with pleasure.

Assuming, of course, that she could figure out how to do this right… preferably without resorting to shrieking out loud at her mother’s imagined voice to shut _up_.

Jughead was turning to her, lacing his fingers with hers as if the bandages on his knuckles were merely decorative.

“Hi,” he said softly, pulling her closer and bending to just brush her lips with his.

“Hi,” she answered as her mother’s venomous whispers in her mind finally fell silent at his touch. “You’re too vertical.”

Jughead grinned, a wry, abbreviated twist of his split lips. “You’re one to talk,” he said.

Betty shook her head chidingly and took a step closer, then another, crowding him until the backs of his thighs bumped the bed. “Too vertical _and_ too talkative,” she tutted with mock disapproval. “Lie down.”

Jughead’s eyes sparked with a renewed surge of heat. Just as he had on Saturday, he seemed more than okay with her taking the lead, and he followed her direction wordlessly. As he willingly fell back onto the faded bedspread, his eyes sparkling up at her with a brilliance their swelling and bruises couldn’t dim, Betty felt the worst of her nerves dissolving.

A part of her wanted to cry as she looked down at his distorted face. But he was watching her so eagerly, with such a familiar expression of expectation – as if she were the most compellingly fascinating thing he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t _wait_ to see what she’d do next – that she quickly stopped seeing Jughead’s wounds and just saw _Jughead_.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked him as she knelt beside his hip. He nodded immediately, but she could see goosebumps rising on his upper arms. “Liar,” she chided mildly, and he chuckled. She reached behind him to fold down the covers as far as she could, then helped him shift to the side to slip under the covers, threadbare but surprisingly soft. She slid in beside him before turning the covers back up to warm him.

“Are you impugning my honour?” Jughead asked with theatrical indignation.

“Looks like it,” Betty agreed easily. “Is this _really_ what you want to talk about right now?”

“We-e-e-ll,” Jughead drew the word out at he pretended to ponder, “we could discuss philosophy… economics…”

“Pugilism,” Betty suggested, propped on one elbow to smile down at him.

Jughead pretended to shudder. “Too much brute physicality,” he said in an appallingly bad British accent.

“Well, there goes my next suggestion,” Betty said with an exaggerated sigh.

“Which was?” he prompted, still watching her with those sparkling eyes, that beloved face poised to break into an appreciative grin.

Betty’s nerves were back, but she’d never get a better opening, so she took a steadying breath and brazened through it. 

“Fellatio,” she said, a little louder than she’d intended, and the word seemed to hang, visible, between them for a moment.

“Of course,” Jughead said after a stunned pause, still in that elaborately bad accent, “one shouldn’t dismiss brute physicality without a fair examination.”

Betty huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. “Your dedication to academic inquiry is inspirational, Jug.”

“Isn’t it?” he agreed, and he was so cute, so pleased with himself for his own silliness, that she couldn’t resist leaning down to claim his lips with her own. He returned her kiss warmly yet, attuned to him as she was, she felt him flinch slightly, and she pulled back in concern. At the sight of his bruised face, the gashes in both lips, she totally lost focus as she began to mentally berate herself for forgetting his condition.

“Oh my _God_ , Juggie,” she gasped. “I am so, _so_ sorry! I totally forgot…”

Jughead grabbed her and pulled her down to him, kissing her even harder. “Don’t you _dare_ apologize,” he ordered as they broke apart, both breathing hard.

“You’re bleeding again,” Betty whispered brokenly barely hearing his words.

It was true: the gash in his lower lip had reopened, and a few drops of blood were welling. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” she moaned. Her own blood was rushing in her ears, she could feel that dreaded sense of unreality descending on her even as her fingers began to curl into her palms.

And of course, Jughead knew. He placed a hand on each side of her face, gently but inexorably forcing her to meet his gaze. “You didn’t,” he said seriously, all teasing gone. _Archie_ hurt me. And I hurt myself some, too. But _nothing_ you are doing is a problem for me.” He didn’t say any more, just held her gaze, her face still cradled between his palms, as he set a pattern of slow, steady breathing that Betty found herself matching without intending to. Gradually, the rushing in her ears subsided. Her hands relaxed and became her own again.”

“I’m sorry,” she began miserably.

“Stop. Apologizing,” he interrupted almost fiercely. She recoiled a moment at the sharp crack of his words, but after another deep breath, she’d completed the journey back into her body, her self.

“Thank you,” she tried instead.

Jughead nodded, just once. “Better,” he said. “And you’re welcome,” he added as an afterthought.

“Boy, I sure know how to kill a mood, don’t I?” Betty asked ruefully.

“Nah… _I’m_ the mood-killer,” Jughead told her lazily.

“What, with your sweetness and consideration and emotional support?” Betty asked sarcastically. “How did _you_ kill the mood?”

“Well, I _did_ bleed on you,” Jughead said, which startled a laugh out of her. “Not to mention that I currently look like the ‘before’ picture in an ad for facial reconstructive surgery.”

Betty laughed again, even as she protested. “You do _not_! Well…” she pulled back a bit and pretended to consider, “maybe just a little.”

Jughead laughed, too, then winced and put a hand to his side. Betty bent over him again, all urge to laugh disappearing just as quickly as it had bubbled up. “You’re hurting,” she murmured, then rolled her eyes at her own inanity.

Jughead shook his head at first, but then nodded, reluctantly. “Yeah,” he acknowledged.

“Where?” Betty asked.

“Pretty much everywhere,” he groaned. Betty found herself considering again the merits of her earlier plan… minus the nerves this time. All her original thinking was still sound; Jughead was still in desperate need of the pain relief some endorphins could provide. And the time they’d spent together, his gentle teasing, his steadfast support had calmed her, reassured her as it always did.

“Does _this_ hurt?” she asked gently, brushing the very lightest of kisses to the outside corner of his left eye, just inside the butterfly bandage she’d applied moments earlier.

“Not anymore,” Jughead answered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“How about this?” she continued, matching his tone as she pressed a kiss to the right corner of his mouth, avoiding the swollen and cracked parts towards the centre of his elegant lips.

“No,” he breathed.

“And this?” she asked, crossing back to his left side and taking his earlobe between her lips, sucking it gently before scraping her teeth delicately over the morsel of flesh.

“Unnngh,” Jughead moaned, but it didn’t sound pained. Quite the contrary, in fact, and Betty smiled in secret satisfaction. She paused for a moment, though, to eye him sternly. “If anything I do _does_ hurt you, you tell me, dammit.” Jughead nodded, watching her again with that fascinated gaze that made her feel entrancing and enticing and powerful all at once. 

Gently, carefully, Betty began to trace a sensuous path down Jughead’s torso with her lips and fingers, not avoiding his injuries, but handling them with particular care. She stroked his flat nipples lightly with her fingertips, then bent to stroke them more firmly with her tongue even as her fingers feathered over the bandages at his ribs. When he cried aloud, she shifted direction for a moment, lifting his hands to her mouth and pressing kisses to each bandaged knuckle before slipping the corresponding fingertip into her mouth and sucking on it gently. By the time each finger had received this attention, Jughead was moaning breathily in a way that had nothing to do with pain, as Betty returned to his torso, kissing her way softly down the planes of his belly until she reached the series of deep purple welts that encircled his waist like a belt. There was no way she could touch him here without hurting him, but it was important to her that he know she wasn’t shying away from his injuries… that he wasn’t, in _any_ sense, a mood-killer. And so she brought her face as close to his skin as she could _without_ touching, and simply breathed onto him, blowing the moist warmth of her breath across the livid terrain, and was rewarded to see him shiver in response. His goosebumps had returned, but judging by the helpless sounds of approval he was making, she didn’t think they were caused by cold.

It was a heady experience, feeling him respond to her initiative, knowing absolutely that for this, fleeting moment, he’d forgotten his pain and Archie’s betrayal in the magic of her touch. She was quickly approaching the boundaries of her experience but, riding high on the wave of his evident arousal, she felt no more than a slight tingle of anxiety mixed into her anticipation. She _wanted_ this… wanted to know Jughead as intimately as possible, wanted to make love to him in any way she could… wanted to take away his pain or, if she couldn’t, then to endure it with him.

And so, as she reached the end of her path across Jughead’s waist, she shifted lower and kissed his hipbone, miraculously unscathed, bending close to suck on the raised ridge before laving it with the flat of her tongue.

Jughead cried out again at the contact, his hips bucking helplessly upward, providing her still more proof of his approval of her methods.

“Betty,” he gasped, his hands fisting in her hair, whether to keep her close or hold her off, she wasn’t quite sure.

“Do you want me to stop?” she whispered against his skin before latching her lips around his hip bone again, and then trailing her lips downwards and _inwards_ , towards her ultimate goal.

“God, no!” he groaned, “unless _you_ want to…” he added, pulling his hips back for a moment.

Betty raised her head only long enough to scoff at him, making sure he held eye contact as she rolled her eyes pointedly, then lowered it again and continued licking, sucking and kissing her way along her self-appointed path, reveling in the tension she could feel thrumming through Jughead’s body, the hitch in his breath. Just as she had Saturday, she felt powerful as she read his responses. But more than that, her sense of triumph stemmed from the knowledge that, for this moment in time, she’d pushed aside his pain completely.

Nearing her objective, Betty could feel Jughead’s dark hairs tickling against her check and jaw. She took a deep breath… and decided to give herself a moment more. Rather than transferring her attentions immediately to that portion of Jughead’s anatomy that was so clearly crying out to be recognized, she shifted her focus to his other hip, allowing her nose to lightly graze his erection as she crossed over, and cherishing the groan that elicited.

By now, Betty’s own body was humming as well, her arousal nearly matching his. Each sound he made created an answering tug in her deepest core. Each twist of his response sent tingles sparking along her nerve endings. She felt flushed, breathless, and undeniably in control.

This time, as her mouth traced a path in and down from his hip, alternately sucking, licking and biting, and treasuring up each nuance of his response, she brought her hands to his knees. As her mouth moved lower, her fingers danced lightly higher, tracing the gentlest of circles along his inner thighs, careful of his bruises but relentless in her desire to coax him to still greater heights of arousal.

If she could judge accurately by Jughead’s response, she was succeeding.

Jughead’s hitched breath had given way now to rhythmic moans, slight vocalizations on every exhale that sent shocks of heat directly to her core. As her fingers neared the apex of his thights, even as her mouth was drawing closer to his centre, the moans gave way to low, muttered words, a constant flow of endearments mixed with profanities she’d never heard from him before, and was sure he wasn’t even aware he was uttering.

Her own arousal was reaching a fever pitch and, uncertain was she was about how to proceed, she was more than confident in Jughead’s willingness to continue her experiment.

And so, with only the slightest breath of hesitation – shut _up_ , Mom! – she shifted once again, slipping her lips over the crown of his turgid cock at the same moment that her hands met and cupped his balls lightly, but firmly.

The sound Jughead made then was one Betty was sure she’d remember to her dying day, just as surely as she knew she’d never be able to name or describe it… a groan and a shout and a prayer… an explosion of joy and need in equal, urgent measure… an exhortation and a benediction and a welcome confirmation that, for all her inexperience, she wasn’t making a fool of herself… was, in fact, succeeding beyond her wildest expectations.

The next few seconds were a blur that she could never quite put in sequence when she looked back on it… Jughead’s whispered pleas as she slid her lips lower, taking more of him into her mouth… the burgeoning tension in his balls as she scratched and rolled them gently in her hands… her own cresting pleasure and power… and then the moment Jughead slipped over the edge, his body a frozen bow for one, eternal moment of stillness, silence, before he exploded, a wave of salt and heat in her mouth as his body shuddered helplessly beneath her, his hoarse cries in her ears as she tried to stay with him, to ride the wave of his pleasure and her own, quieter satisfaction… as she found herself, to her own surprise, lapping eagerly at him, trying not to lose a drop. She hadn’t been sure, even a moment earlier, whether she’d want to swallow. But in that surging, cresting moment, it felt natural, even necessary, and she followed her instincts as Jughead shuddered and bucked beneath her.

At last, Jughead’s passion was spent, his body limp beneath her, his eyes barely open.

“That,” he breathed as she sat up and stretched. “You…” he shook his head, as if to intimate that words failed him. “Wow,” he managed at last, after a lengthy pause.

“Wow indeed,” Betty agreed with a giggle she couldn’t quite repress, snuggling into his side and pulling the covers back over them both.

“Did I say thank you yet?” Jughead mumbled drunkenly a few moments, or lifetimes, later, his eyes completely closed.

“I think it was implied,” Betty answered magnanimously.

“Still worth saying,” he muttered… and then he was asleep. Betty had spent enough nights in his arms to recognize the signs, to know the exact moment when he slipped over the borderline of consciousness, his breath deep and even, his limbs boneless in the sagging double bed.

Careful not to wake him, she slipped from beneath the covers and grabbed her phone. She had work to do.


	60. Chapter 60

### Chapter 60

Veronica was in the back seat of the Lodges’ town car when Smithers picked Betty up, still groggy and disoriented from sleep. After she’d dealt with her most pressing priorities, she’d crawled into bed with Jughead – setting an alarm on her phone for 9:15 p.m., though she’d assumed they’d wake up and eat well before that – and had immediately been dead to the world. When the alarm had chimed, she hadn’t had the faintest idea where she was or why. If it hadn’t been for Jughead’s comforting warmth beside her, equally confused but reassuringly familiar, she’d have panicked.

As it was, they’d made the bed together clumsily and she’d helped Jughead to struggle, bleary-eyed and stiff, into his clothes. She’d offered to microwave him a couple of hotdogs from the freezer before Bruce arrived, but he’d said he wasn’t hungry… which had seriously alarmed her. He’d insisted he was okay, though, and kissed her – gingerly, but tenderly – before locking the trailer door behind them both and limping towards Bruce’s truck… which Betty hadn’t been too sleepy to note with pride was purring just as smoothly as the Lodges’ vintage town car idling beside it. She’d done good work last weekend.

But Veronica’s unexpected presence in the car startled Betty into wakefulness.

“What did Jughead do?” Veronica asked without preamble. “Take on a part-time job as Evander Holyfield’s sparring partner?” 

“I’m pretty sure Holyfield retired, V,” Betty said, focusing on the mundane detail rather than engaging the more difficult dimensions of the question.

Veronica waved a hand dismissively. “And I would know that because?”

Betty shrugged helplessly.

“So spill, Mildred,” Veronica continued. “Did Jughead run afoul of some South Side crime lord? Or land with a bad foster family? Do you have a jealous husband hidden away somewhere…”

“He got into a fight,” Betty took a deep breath and rushed her fence, staving off the inevitable follow-up question, “with Archie.”

“Archie,” Veronica echoed blankly, and Betty nodded miserably. It hadn’t even occurred to her that Archie wouldn’t have already informed his girlfriend of the morning’s misadventure, presumably with a similar slant to what he’d presented to her. But it was only too evident that Veronica hadn’t known a thing about their contretemps.

Veronica was silent a moment longer, then leaned forward to tap the driver on the shoulder. “We’re taking a detour, Smithers,” she informed him. “This is a conversation that requires Pop’s.”

“Indeed, Miss Veronica,” he replied impassively.

“It’s a school night, V,” Betty protested weakly, but Veronica scoffed her to silence.

“Which means you have an 11 o’clock curfew,” she countered, and Betty knew she was stuck. It wasn’t even 9:40 yet. “Text your mom and negotiate for an extra hour,” Veronica commanded.

“She’ll never go for that,” Betty protested, more assuredly this time.

“Of _course_ she won’t,” Veronica answered with exaggerated patience, “but it will make her feel like she won when she pushes you back to an extra 30 minutes… which gives _us_ almost two hours to spill tea and make shakes and burgers magically disappear.”

***

The text exchange with Alice Cooper had played out exactly as she’d predicted, Veronica reflected with grim satisfaction… with the sole exception that Mommie Dearest had served up the curfew with a generous side dish of fat shaming.

“Pop’s???” she’d texted after drawing the firm line on an 11:30 home time.

“What have you done today to earn those calories, Elizabeth?” her next text had read. 

And before Betty had even finished keying in her mendacious reply (“I’ve been running River Vixens routine with Veronica all night”), a third maternal text had lit up her screen.

“You looked a little fleshy at the podium at the Jubilee.”

“I’ll just have a Diet Coke,” Betty had typed back promptly, rolling her eyes as she did. As her best friend, Veronica felt honour-bound to pretend not to notice that those rolling eyes were suspiciously wet.

So it was no real surprise when Betty flushed uncomfortably and muttered, “Diet Coke, please” to Pop Tate when he came to their table personally to take their order. Like everyone else in this one-horse town, Pop had a soft spot for Betty Cooper.

“Screw that,” Veronica said succinctly. “Sorry, Pop,” she added, although he was grinning broadly at her. “She’ll have a cheeseburger, double order of fries, and a vanilla shake.”

“Veronica, my mom would _kill_ me,” Betty started, but it was Veronica’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Pop, what did Betty order?” she asked him.

“Just a Diet Coke,” he answered, still beaming.

“And if her mother asks?” Veronica prompted.

“That’s still the truth,” Pop answered, glancing meaningfully at Betty as if to ensure she got the message.

“That it is, Pop,” Veronica pronounced. “And I’ll have what she’s having, only make the shake chocolate, please. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

Pop Tate disappeared into the kitchen after a last, conspiratorial smile in her direction, and Veronica turned her attention back to her best friend.

“So… the Wonder Twins had a little falling out, did they?” She could hear the brittleness in her own tone, but was powerless to achieve anything more natural. Somewhere, deep inside her, she could feel something shattering; she just couldn’t see yet what was broken.

Betty was nodding miserably, her knowledge that there was no way to avoid this conversation written as clearly on her face as was her fervent desire to be somewhere… _anywhere_ else.

“This morning,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Jughead visited Fred at the hospital. He and Archie left together and then…” she spread her hands helplessly.

“And how did you learn about this clash of the titans?” Veronica asked, taking refuge, as she so often had, behind pretended flippancy.

Wordlessly, Betty pulled out her phone and handed it over, showing Veronica the text Archie had sent her – _her_ , not Veronica – hours ago.

“So _this_ is why he wasn’t in school today,” she said flatly, and Betty nodded again. “You know, I didn’t get a good look at Jughead back at the trailer,” Veronica continued, striving for a tone of academic detachment, “but it strikes me that the honours in this little affair didn’t exactly come off even.”

Betty shook her head again, and this time, a spark kindled in her eyes, part anger, part terrible grief.

“It wasn’t a fight, Veronica,” she said, finally meeting her friend’s gaze directly. “It was a beating… a bloodbath. It was…” she trailed off, her eyes deeply troubled.

“What Archie did to him,” she continued at last. “It was brutal. Brutal, and brute- _ish_. I can’t believe Archie – _Archie_ – did that to _anyone_ , much less Jughead.”

At that moment, Pop arrived with their food. He smiled encouragingly and disappeared again.

“I’ve kind of lost my appetite,” Betty muttered, staring unenthusiastically at her overloaded plate.

“Eating it would _seriously_ piss off your mother,” Veronica told her coaxingly, and then laughed out loud when Betty promptly seized her burger and took an enormous bite, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated pantomime of ecstasy.

“Where Betty Cooper leads…” Veronica said, and took a generous bit of her own burger.

For a few minutes, they both chewed in relieved silence, the food providing an excellent excuse to take a pause for reflection. At last, though, Veronica felt sufficiently fortified to broach the question that was uppermost in her mind… one of them, at least.”

“How bad is it, really?” she asked. “Jughead,” she clarified when Betty looked at her food, then back at Veronica in obvious confusion.

The confusion evaporated rapidly, replaced by a look Veronica couldn’t quite define… it was more than sorrow… more than disgust… although it contained elements of each. Whatever it was, it made her immediately sorry she’d asked.

But when Betty did something quickly with her phone, then handed it over, displaying a close-up photo of Jughead’s swollen and purple eye, half obscured with crusted blood, she found new depths to her own regret.

“Just scroll through,” Betty suggested, pushing her plate back as if she’d abruptly lost her appetite for the second time that evening. And as Veronica followed her instructions, she could see why.

Lurid bruises… gashed flesh… misshapen contours… one after another in endless, grotesque display… Veronica desperately wanted to push the phone back into Betty’s hands… shut her eyes… _unsee_ this somehow. But she forced herself to continue to the very end, mentally cataloguing the wreckage of Jughead’s body.

When she’d finished, she handed the phone wordlessly back to Betty, rose, and walked swiftly to the ladies’ room.

Where she promptly threw up every bite she’d eaten… possibly for the past month. 

She shuddered and heaved and cried until her stomach ached with emptiness, grateful beyond words that Betty hadn’t followed, had heeded the warning glare that was all she’d been able to manage as she fled their booth. One word, one touch, one sympathetic glance, and she was certain she would have screamed until her throat was raw and bleeding.

Archie had done that. _Archie_ , the sweet, slightly goofy, all-American boy who had made her forget she was the ice queen of New York, had made her feel like she belonged here in Riverdale, like she could be a Betty Cooper, too: beloved of all, warm and generous and courageous enough to keep loving people, even when they sucked.

And suddenly, everything she knew about Archie, about Riverdale, about her own fresh start was called into question.

A few splashes of cold water on her wrists and temples, a few sprays of Binaca, and Veronica was ready to face the world… as represented by her best friend.

The sympathy and understanding in Betty’s expression when she returned to their table nearly undid her, so she took refuge again behind assumed flippancy.

“On second thought, I don’t think I’m in a burger mood tonight. I’ll stick to the fries and shake.”

Betty nodded solemnly, tacitly cosigning Veronica’s bullshit, and again, she was grateful. She was also grateful that she’d trusted her gut (she winced inwardly at the inappropriateness of that thought) and ordered comfort food. Despite her own, unfortunate experience just now, she couldn’t help but notice that Betty had demolished her own burger, made a solid dent in a mountain of fries that would have challenged even Jughead, and was eying her half-drunk milkshake mournfully, as if wishing it would refill itself.

“Pop, two more shakes, please,” Veronica called on an impulse. She was by now reasonably certain that tonight was going to suck for her, no matter what; chocolate reinforcements couldn’t hurt. And Betty looked like Christmas had come early, even as she made a move towards arguing.

“Veronica…” she began.

“All _you_ ordered was Diet Coke,” Veronica reminded her, struggling to keep her tone normal. “Tell your mother how _I_ kept binge ordering, and she’ll be too titillated to grill you on anything else.

Betty laughed reluctantly. “Betty Draper’s not a good look for me,” she said, even as she polished off her first shake in one long pull, making room for the replacement that Pop was already sliding in front of her.

“This round’s on the house,” he told them both with a conspiratorial wink, “and strictly off the record.”

They both smiled their thanks and took deep, therapeutic sips.

“You already know what I’m going to ask, Betty,” Veronica said, deciding abruptly to dispense with both verbal fencing and all pretense of indifference.

Betty nodded, looking even unhappier than she had a few moments ago. “I do,” she confirmed. “I’ve been dreading it all evening.”

“But you’ll tell me anyway,” Veronica said confidently, and Betty nodded yet again.

“I’d rather not, but you deserve to know the truth. And…” she trailed off tactfully.

“And Archie seems disinclined to fill me in himself,” Veronica supplied.

“Not to mention, his version of the story,” Betty nodded towards her phone, “left out some critical details.”

“Such as?” Veronica prompted, not wanting to hear, but desperate to know the worst at once.

Betty released a deep, shuddering sigh.

And then she began to talk. And as she talked, Veronica was, at last, able to give a form and a name to the broken pieces jangling inside her.

It wasn’t as comforting as she’d imagined it would be.

“So _you’re_ the soul mate, and _I’m_ the booty call,” she summarized when Betty at last fell silent.

“No!” Betty protested vehemently. “Well… yes,” she acknowledged. “But only according to Archie, who is…”

“An idiot,” Veronica offered. “A _single_ idiot,” she amended.

“I was going to say, ‘broken,’” Betty answered softly.

“Are you _seriously_ making _excuses_ for him?” Veronica asked incredulously. “Because, excuse me, but _Jughead_ is looking pretty freaking ‘broken’ to me right now, and _Archie_ is the one who broke him.”

Betty’s lower lip was dropping, her eyes like crushed violets in her pale face, but she shook her head stubbornly.

“I’ve known Archie my entire life, Veronica,” she insisted. “This isn’t him. Yes, he’s done – and said – some _horrible_ things today. But that’s… they’re _symptoms_ of the brokenness. They’re not really him.”

For a moment, Veronica found herself frustrated – beyond frustrated, actually; verging on a New York Veronica icy rage, in fact – with Betty. But this… Pollyanna thing wasn’t some act with her. It was genuine.

And that was not so much frustrating or infuriating as it was straight-up terrifying.

“Betty,” she said, with a gentleness that surprised even her, “you told me once that Archie didn’t really know you, that all he saw was some picture your parents had painted.” Betty nodded, clearly remembering the conversation. “What if that’s true for you, too? What if you’ve never seen past the story you told yourself about who Archie is?

“What if you’ve never really known him at all?”


	61. Chapter 61

### Chapter 61

“Your mother and I wanted to talk to you,” Fred told Archie when he arrived at the hospital Friday morning for his daily visit. “Family meeting.”

“Family meeting?” Archie echoed in disbelief. “Didn’t we stop having those years ago… like, when we stopped being a family?”

To his annoyance, his parents exchanged a glance that seemed to relegate him to “difficult child” status, without even the slightest suggestion that his comment had given them pause.

“We’re still a family, Archie,” his mother told him in a voice that was just a little too patient.

Archie snorted, not minding at all if he sounded rude… hoping he did, in fact. “Sure we are,” he said snidely.

“ _What_ is the matter with you?” Fred exploded, but Mary, perched on the side of his bed, laid a quieting hand on his arm.

“We _are_ a family, kiddo,” Mary insisted quietly. “A bit unconventional, I’ll grant you. But we’re your parents, and both of us take that role _very_ seriously. Which means that we have the same priority… you. We make important decisions together… especially when they affect you. And when it comes right down to it, your father and I have each other’s backs.”

“And we’ve _made_ some decisions, and they’re _going_ to affect you, so sit your ass down while we discuss it as a family!” Fred added.

Despite his annoyance, Archie was hard-pressed not to smile. Fred was rarely sick, but for as long as Archie could remember, the surest sign of his father’s convalescence from any ailment was a sudden, persistent, and thoroughly uncharacteristic irritability. Being told by Fred to “sit his ass down” was the most reassuring thing that had happened to Archie since the shooting.

Archie grabbed the straight-backed wooden chair his father was indicating, spun it around, and sat astride it, his arms folded atop its laddered back. He wasn’t going to fight them on this, but he wasn’t going to pretend any enthusiasm for this cozy little fireside chat either... even with an IV standing in for the fire. “Fine,” he said flatly. “Important decisions. Go.”

Fred and Mary exchanged another look laden with meaning, but it was Fred who spoke.

“First of all,” he said, “I’ve decided to sell Andrews construction.”

“ _What_?” Archie shouted, on his feet all at once as his chair toppled over from the force of his ejection. His parents winced at the volume, whether of his voice or the clatter of wood on tile.

A nurse, who either happened to be passing by at that exact, inopportune moment, or else had been lurking in the hall, waiting for him to put a toe out of line, leaned into the room and fixed him with a glare.

“Shhhhhhh!” she hissed imperatively, the sound somehow even louder than the crash that had occasioned it, before disappearing again.

As soon as she was gone, Mary, began to giggle. She clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to contain her mirth, but it continued to bubble over.

“Shhhhh…” Fred admonished her, but that echo of the nurse only made her laugh even harder.

“Shhhhh….” She whispered back before dissolving into giggles again, and this time, to Archie’s astonishment, Fred joined her. 

Archie stared at his parents, whose shoulders shook with suppressed laughter as they struggled to get themselves under control.

It was Fred who stopped first with a wince, as though his body had protested the exertion.

“You’re impossible,” he told his ex-wife fondly. “Pull yourself together, or we’ll have Nurse Ratched back in here.”

“I’ll be good,” Mary vowed meekly, but her eyes were still dancing with fun, and Archie felt a brief pang, remembering just that look from a hundred romps of his childhood. Chicago was just too damned far away.

With an effort, though, he forced his mind back to the question at hand.

“Did you seriously just tell me you’re _selling_ the company?” he asked angrily, trying to recover his seething indignation of a few moments ago.

“What I _told_ you was to sit your ass down,” Fred returned to his previous, grim demeanour without so much as a warning.

Archie opened his mouth to make some retort – he wasn’t even sure what – but his mother caught his eye and shook her head almost imperceptibly, and he closed it again. He picked up his chair, set it next to the bed, and sat, using the chair as originally intended this time.

“You know that Hiram and Hermione Lodge made me an offer,” Fred began.

“And you refused it,” Archie interrupted. “You told me you weren’t selling… especially to those sleazeballs!”

Both his parents’ eyebrows rose, but when Mary spoke, it was to Fred. “You called Hiram and Hermione ‘sleazeballs’?” she asked in a tone Archie couldn’t quite read.

“He’s editorializing,” Fred told her, ignoring Archie as thoroughly as if he were invisible. “All I said was I wasn’t selling.”

“Yeah, you _did_ say that,” Archie interjected, deciding it was high time to take control of the conversation. “Case closed.”

“Things have changed, kiddo,” his mother told him.

“What things?” he demanded.

“Are you _serious_?” Fred asked him aggressively. “Have you noticed where we’re _having_ this conversation, Archie? I was _shot_!”

“So?” Archie asked truculently.

“ _So_???” Fred repeated incredulously, his voice louder than it had been all morning. Again, Mary laid a hand on his arm, but he shook it off impatiently. “Archie, the company was barely making it – _we_ were barely making it – before all this. And now? My surgeries… this hospital stay… it hasn’t even been two weeks, and the bills are already in the tens of thousands of dollars.

“The Lodges’ offer will take care of all that… _more_ than take care of it.”

“It’s a good offer,” Mary confirmed. “I went through it with a fine toothed comb – Hiram _is_ a sleazeball, even if your father didn’t say it – and the deal is solid. He won’t get a better one.”

“Why should he take _any_ offer?” Archie demanded, impotent rage almost choking him.

“Are you even listening, Arch?” Fred took the conversational ball again. “Business troubles… medical bills… And exactly how soon do you think I’m going to be able to get back to work? My guys aren’t getting paid right now, son. The company has _zero_ revenue until I’m back to run the show…”

“I’ll fill in for you,” Archie said desperately. I’m a good worker… you said so yourself.”

“Archie,” Fred answered, gently this time, “you’re a good, _entry-level labourer_. I’m proud of your work ethic. You did good, honest work with me this summer. But one summer of hauling rocks doesn’t exactly qualify you to run the business.”

Archie searched desperately for a counter-argument, but came up empty. “I’d learn,” he tried, but even he could hear how lame it sounded, and his parents didn’t bother to answer him.

“So… what?” he asked after a silence that was verging on awkward. “When you get out of here, you’re just going to… hang around the house?”

Fred and Mary exchanged yet another glance, which was seriously beginning to piss him off. They were _divorced_ , for crying out loud; they weren’t supposed to be capable of communicating telepathically in a way that effectively excluded everyone else in the room.

“Not exactly,” Fred said slowly, before Archie had even found words to express his newest irritation. “I’ll actually be moving to Florida to stay with Mom and Dad for a while.”

Archie stared at him in stunned, incredulous silence, too overwhelmed to even frame a reply. Which was just as well since Fred, apparently, wasn’t finished.

“The doctors actually think it’s a really good idea,” he continued. “Mom and Dad have a great doctor there whose part of a comprehensive clinic. I’ll have access to physiotherapists or… whatever else I may need while I’m healing. The weather will make it easier to get outside, take walks and things while I’m building up my strength. And they’ll keep an eye on me… make sure I’m not overdoing it.”

“I can do that!” Archie exclaimed. “Right _here_!”

“Archie, I’m _your_ father,” Fred told him quietly. “It’s _my_ job to take care of _you_ , not the other way around.”

“You think I care about that?” Archie demanded. “I’ll do it. _I’ll_ do it… do whatever you need. But _here_ , not in Florida. I don’t _want_ to move to Florida.”

“You’re not,” Mary cut in, her voice just as soft, yet certain, as Fred’s had been. “You’re moving to Chicago, with me.”

For a moment, Archie was sure he’d misheard her. He stared at her, no words finding his way into his open mouth. Then…

“ _What_?” he exploded, irritated beyond belief that, far from sounding outraged and commanding, his voice was panicky and shrill. “No I’m not!”

“You _are_ ,” Fred confirmed, the edge back in his own tone, “whether you like it or not.”

“Why the hell should I move?” Archie asked, still struggling to sound fierce rather than frightened. “If Dad’s going away for a while, I’ll stay here on my own, and…”

“Like hell you will,” Fred cut him off, and this time, he allowed Mary's quieting hand to remain on his arm as if giving – or maybe receiving – comfort.

“Why not?” Archie pressed, ignoring his mother. Fred had been the sole authority figure in his life for almost three years now, and instinctively, he felt it was his father he needed to convince. “I’ve got my license now. Leave me the truck, and I can drive myself to school or wherever I need to go. I’m not much of a cook, but the Coopers won’t let me starve…”

“Betty might,” his mother muttered, and he shot her a look.

“Not a chance,” he said confidently.

“I think you’re a little out of touch, kiddo,” she told him. “Betty is not your biggest fan right now. And,” she added emphatically, effectively cutting off his counter argument, “you’re screwing up pretty thoroughly right now, even with your dad here to keep an eye on you. There isn’t a snowball’s chance in Dubai that we’re going to leave you here alone when you’re already falling apart.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Archie told her, stung by her words.

“You’re not,” Fred told him. “You’re officially _not_.”


	62. Chapter 62

### Chapter 62

Something about Fred’s expression, about the heaviness in his quiet words, stopped Archie in his tracks. Mary was looking just as somber… more serious than he’d seen her since she’d told him, years ago now, that her father had died. And now, as then, her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

Something was definitely going on here… something Archie didn’t know about yet… something his parents seemed hesitant to bring up. And, given that this conversation had already dropped a series of bombs into his quiet world – selling the family business, two moves out of state – he didn’t like to imagine what they might be holding back. He was trying desperately to hold on to his outrage, but the longer the silence stretched, the more his anger was being eroded by his growing uneasiness.

“Is this about school?” he asked, trying to end the suspense, the tension. “Did Weatherbee call? I know my grades have probably slipped a bit, but I’ll pick it up. Betty’ll help me.” Just thinking of Betty, of more hours spent with her gentle presence, lifted his spirits. She’d never let him fail. And if he was in real academic trouble, they’d be spending a lot more time together.

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Mary muttered, but this time it was Fred who signaled her to silence.

“This isn’t about school, Arch,” he said heavily, “and I tend to agree with your mother. Betty won’t be helping with your homework anymore. She’s not willing and, even if she were, _I_ wouldn’t allow it. It isn’t safe.”

“Safe?” Archie scoffed, thinking he was finally grasping the direction of this conversation. “What, do you think Jughead’s going to jump me again if Betty and I get too cozy?” He laughed derisively. “I’m pretty sure I can take him.”

“I meant that it isn’t safe for _Betty_ ,” Fred answered, without the slightest attempt to match his jocularity. “I meant that _you’re_ not safe.”

Archie stared, mouth agape, at his parents, a part of him waiting for the punchline that just _had_ to be coming. _He_ wasn’t safe? What was _that_ supposed to mean? It almost sounded as though Fred was suggesting that he, Archie, was… dangerous… to _Betty_ , of all people.

But his parents were all-to-clearly not joking; their faces were serious, even sorrowful.

“Are you telling me,” Archie asked finally, hating the sound of the hurt in his own voice, “that you honestly think I’d hurt _Betty_?”

“Until two days ago, Arch,” his father told him, “I’d have staked my life that you wouldn’t hurt _Jughead_. Now… I’m sorry to say, I don’t know what you’d do. And I’m not willing to take the risk of finding out.”

“Jughead?” Archie echoed, feeling anew the anger that always seemed to surge in him now when he thought of his onetime friend. “Seriously? _That’s_ what this is about? You’re hijacking my entire _life_ because I got in a fight with _Jughead_? You don’t think that’s overkill?”

“You didn’t ‘get in a fight’ with Jughead, kiddo,” his mother told him seriously. “You brutalized him.”

Archie scoffed. “Is that what he told you?” he demanded. “Whiny little tattletale,” he added beneath his breath.

“No,” Mary replied evenly. “It’s what Betty _showed_ me.” Without another word, she handed him her phone. A photo was displayed on her screen, a photo that showed a grotesquely bruised and swollen eye, a photo that appeared to be part of a series of text messages that (he checked the top of the screen) had originated from Betty’s number.

“What…” Archie began, but Mary cut him off.

“Shut up and look at it,” she told him crisply, and his head snapped back at words he’d never in his life heard her use. “And then look at the next one… and the next…

“There are 37 of them, if you’re curious,” she added, and although her voice was still quiet, her tone conveyed a mixture of grief and deep rage that made his stomach ache just to hear it.

“Why…” he tried again, but again, Mary cut him off.

“Just. Look,” she said inexorably, and he turned his attention obediently back to the screen.

By the fifth or sixth image, his stomach ache had turned to a cold nausea that roiled sickly within him. He’d never been squeamish, but this relentless parade of close-up injuries was daunting.

“This is… Jughead?” he breathed, with no anger this time. This collection of parts, out of context, was unrecognizable, but given his mother’s words, the conclusion was inescapable. Both his parents nodded sadly. “What happened to him?” he wondered aloud, still scrolling through the cringe-worthy gallery.

His parents exchanged yet another glance, this one so ominous that his nausea increased sharply.

“What _happened_ to him?” it was Fred who echoed his question. “You did, son.”

Once again, there was not the slightest hint that Fred was joking, no suggestion that he or Mary was anything other than deadly serious.

“I didn’t do _that_!” Archie exclaimed, stung by the mere suggestion as he brandished the phone at them.

“You sure about that, kiddo?” his mother asked him wryly, and he opened his mouth to respond. “ _Really_ sure?” she pressed, and he closed it again. He instinct for indignant denial – how could his own _parents_ even _suggest_ he would inflict that kind of damage? – was short-circuited by his mother’s quiet insistence, and so he floundered about for evidence.

He remembered clearly his irritation when Jughead had arrived in this very room… his rising anger as the conversation progressed. He remembered Jughead hitting him – he still wasn’t over _that_ surprise – and then…

Nothing.

A total blank, until he found himself at the kitchen table at home, being plied with grilled cheese and tomato soup.

He frowned. That was weird. 

He focused harder, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember… anything…

What he’d said to Jughead after that unprecedented punch… 

How they’d said goodbye…

The walk home…

_Anything_.

But it was useless. Try as he might, his brain stubbornly insisted that Jughead had hit him, and then he’d immediately sat down at the table with his mother to eat his childhood comfort food. And, since his kitchen table wasn’t located on the sidewalk outside the hospital, where the confrontation with Jughead had occurred, he knew that couldn’t be right.

It wasn’t just weird, actually… it was scary, both because he had no idea how he’d gotten home or what had happened on the way… and because this inexplicable blank in his memory made it impossible to deny any responsibility for Jughead’s beating as categorically as he’d have liked to do.

His parents were still watching him wordlessly, their eyes so sad as they waited for his answer to his mother’s question. _Was he sure?/ _Not as sure as he wanted to be.__

____

“I… don’t know,” Archie admitted at last. “I don’t remember ever doing anything like that in my life. But… I don’t really remember _not_ doing it, either.

____

At his words, Fred’s shoulders sank, whether in relief or defeat, Archie wasn’t sure. They sat in silence for a few seconds, before Mary spoke.

____

“You don’t remember?” she prodded, her expression concerned.

____

Archie shook his head, a bit of his anger seeping back in. He was glad of that, though. Angry felt powerful and strong… miles removed from confused and uncertain. “I don’t,” he said shortly, “but that doesn’t mean I beat up Jughead… if that’s even Jughead in those pictures,” he added.

____

“It’s Jughead,” his mother interrupted before he could get up a good head of steam. “I went to see him yesterday.”

____

“What? Why?” Archie’s anger was rising now.

____

“Because you beat the living _crap_ out of him, Archie, and we needed to know if he was okay!” Fred exploded again.

____

“ _And_ whether he was going to press charges,” Mary added pragmatically.

____

“Press charges???” Archie all but shouted. “Are you _kidding_ me right now?”

____

“Does it look like we’re laughing?” Fred countered just as angrily.

____

“Cool it,” Mary told them both, quietly, but with authority. “Yes, Archie,” she continued, almost in the same breath. “He’d be well within his right to press charges. His foster parents tried to persuade him to do just that. And if he were _my_ client, I’d insist on it. “But Jughead won’t do it.”

____

“He’d better not,” Archie grumbled.

____

“He might not have had a choice,” Mary added, “or he might at least have been forced to sue if your father and I hadn’t offered, proactively, to pay his medical expenses.”

____

“What, his foster family can’t afford a Band-Aid?” Archie scoffed, trying to stay with anger and avoid sliding back into his fear.

____

“Three broken ribs. Two cuts that needed stitches. The rest is mostly bruising, but it’s extensive, and it runs deep. The doctors actually had to do a CT scan to make sure he wasn’t bleeding internally,” Mary reported the inventory factually, clinically, but her words carried their own weight of shock. “There’s actually not a lot they can do for him, treatment-wise. But the tests… the checkups he’ll need to make sure it’s all healing properly… it all costs something.”

____

“And neither Jughead nor his new family has a whole lot of extra ‘something,’” Fred added.

____

Archie blinked rapidly, trying to process the onslaught of disturbing info that had assailed him in the past few minutes, trying to make sense of the unprecedented time lapse in his memory of his fight with Archie, trying to cope with the idea that he might be the one whose fists had raised the bruises and welts in the photos on the phone he was still holding.”

____

With no idea what to say, he focused again on the screen, moving idly through the series of texts even as he tried not to look too closely at the images.

____

Until he came to one that wasn’t an image.

____

“Archie did this,” the text said baldly. “All of it.”

____

Another message had been sent two minutes later. “I think he needs help, but it won’t be from me.” That one, he felt like a punch in his own gut. Betty had always been there to help him… _always_. But there was worse still to come.

____

“I won’t be studying with him anymore. I don’t want to hear from him. I’d rather not see him, if I can help it. Whatever demons he’s fighting are officially not my problem.”

____

And a minute later, one last, devastating message. “I’m done.”

____

“So… this is why you didn’t make me go to school yesterday?” Archie asked, more to break the silence than out of any real curiosity. He felt numb… lost. Betty not only didn’t love him anymore… she didn’t even want to _see_ him. She was, in her own words, done.

____

Both his parents nodded, but it was Mary who spoke. “Betty doesn’t have a restraining order against you. She probably couldn’t get one even if she tried, given that you haven’t directly attacked or threatened her.”

____

“Yet,” Fred interjected pointedly.

____

That should have hurt Archie… probably _would_ have hurt, if he’d been capable in that moment of feeling anything beyond shock.

____

“But I’d prefer we respect Betty and her wishes enough to treat her request seriously,” Mary continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted.

____

“Which means?” Archie asked.

____

“You won’t be going back to Riverdale High, son,” Fred was the one to answer. “Principal Weatherbee has arranged to have your locker cleaned out. Moose will drop off your things.”

____

“So… that’s it then?” Archie asked bleakly. “Riverdale is history and I’ll just… finish the year in Chicago?” He wasn’t even sure why he cared. Betty wanted nothing to do with him. And after seeing photographic evidence of what he’d done to Jughead -– had he _really_ done that? Yes, Jughead was a douche with a girlfriend he didn’t deserve, but… Archie didn’t wish _that_ on him, or on anyone –- he had to assume _that_ life-long friendship was at an end, too. If Fred was going to be gone, too… what the hell was _he_ staying for?

____

“Well, that’ll depend, son,” Fred said slowly, “on what the doctors say.”

____

“I thought you were going to Florida,” Archie said, confused by his father’s statement.

____

“Not my doctors, Arch. Yours,” Fred answered.

____

Archie shook his head, still confused.

____

“Archie,” his mother said softly, “you just beat your best friend so savagely, it’s a miracle you didn’t do any permanent damage. And that’s not me talking; it’s _his_ doctor’s own words. And you don’t even remember doing it. Sweetie… that’s not a good sign.”

____

“It’s not something healthy people do,” Fred concurred.

____

“It was _one_ fight,” Archie began to protest, but Mary held up a peremptory hand, her eyes flashing fire. 

____

“That wasn’t a fight,” she said in a tone he’d never heard from her before. “It was brutality, _and_ it apparently took place during some kind of dissociative episode.

____

“And it _wasn’t_ an isolated incident, kiddo. I’ve been worried about you ever since I got here. You’re… you’re not yourself.”

____

“Then who am I?” Archie scoffed.

____

“Someone cold and selfish and incapable of empathy,” his mother answered, not even slightly fazed by the question. “Someone my sweet boy probably wouldn’t even be friends with… unless _maybe_ he was an amazing long snapper,” she added thoughtfully, and for a moment, Archie saw a glimmer of her characteristic humour peeking through her somber mask. But it faded fast as she continued. “Someone who’s going to end up in prison unless something changes… fast.”

____

“Well, it’s nice to know my own _parents_ think I’m a criminal,” Archie spat, his anger rising yet again.

____

“Arch,” Fred cut in, “we’re worried about you.”

____

“Worried I’ll end up in jail?” Archie sneered, scarcely able to speak through his rage.

____

“Worried because you were molested by a teacher, Arch,” his father answered, and his convalescent irritability was nowhere to be seen. “Molested repeatedly, over a period of _months_.

____

“Worried because you saw a classmate of yours get shot by his own father.

____

“Worried because you watched _me_ get gunned down in a place that’s like a second home to you.

____

“Worried because all that trauma has to go somewhere, and in your case, it seems like it’s going straight to your heart, and it’s turning you into something less than the man you could be.

____

“I failed you Arch,” Fred continued sadly. “I didn’t protect you from that… from _any_ of it. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to fail you again now. Your mother will take you to every shrink or therapist in Chicago, if she has to, to find one who can help. And _that’s_ who’s going to side whether you’re going back to school.”

____

“Because you think I’m a criminal,” Archie accused again, clinging to his anger because it was far less complicated than diving into the riot of emotions his father’s words had stirred.

____

“Oh, kiddo,” his mother crooned. “We don’t think you’re a criminal. We think you’re drowning.”

____


	63. Chapter 63

### Chapter 63

Dinner at the Fosters’ on Saturday night was like a replay of the previous week, albeit a replay in which the role of Jughead had been recast and was now being played by a bruised and broken man who bore no more than a passing resemblance to him. But Bruce and Molly were warm and friendly, the food was simple and delicious, and Jughead’s voice and the reassuring pressure of his hand against hers were familiar, even when his face wasn’t. For a few hours, Betty found it easy to relax, to laugh and talk and be in the moment without worrying about what anyone would think of her.

In short, she thought as she stepped inside her own home after kissing Jughead goodnight, carefully but lingeringly, at the door – “I’ll be watching funny cat videos on my iPhone,” Bruce had assured them with a wink from the driver’s seat of his truck, as Jughead stepped out to walk her to the door – it had been a piece of heaven.

“Oh, you’re home.” Her mother’s voice recalled her sharply. “What happened? Did Fagin and Nancy run out of Spam?”

Clearly, Betty’s brief foray in heaven was over.

“Nice to see you too, Mom,” was all Betty said before climbing the stairs to her room, suddenly exhausted.

She’d barely switched on her bedroom light, though, before her phone buzzed with an incoming text. Expecting a “goodnight” message from Jughead, she eagerly slid it out of the rear pocket of her jeans and swiped the screen to life, only to frown. The message wasn’t from Jughead; it was from Archie.

“I need to see you,” it read, and a cold fury seized her.

“No,” she texted back tersely.

“C’mon, B,” he responded within seconds. “This is important.”

After a moment’s reflection, Betty ignored the message. Only a few minutes passed, though, before her phone buzzed again.

“At least hear my side of the story,” this message read. “You owe me that much.”

“I owe you NOTHING,” she replied. And then, slowly and deliberately, she opened her call log and blocked his number.

***

Mary Andrews was waiting on the Coopers’ porch when they got home from church on Sunday. Technically, she supposed, Mary was actually on their front steps, her jeans-clad legs stretched out in front of her, her hair half-hidden under a woolly hat topped with a ridiculously large pompom, looking impossibly young with her cheeks pink from the cold.

“Oh, are you feeling better, Mary?” Alice asked with poisonous solicitude before Hal had even switched off the engine of the family sedan. “I knew you must be ill,” she added pointedly, “since I didn’t see you _or_ Archie at church.”

Betty, exiting the car behind her mother, cringed at the barbed criticism that dropped from Alice’s words, even as she glanced apprehensively into the shadows of the porch, then breathed a sigh of relief when she realized that Archie wasn’t there.

“Oh, Alice,” Mary’s tone sounded almost fond, and the smile on her face was natural, even sunny. “You just don’t change a _bit_ , do you?” Then, ignoring Alice as completely as if she were invisible, she turned her eyes on Betty.

“Actually, I came to see you, kiddo,” she said. Her smile was still just as warm, but there was a focus, an intensity in her eyes that put Betty on her guard. “I got the information on that internship you were asking about, but it’s all a bit technical. Can I buy you lunch and walk you through it?”

Betty blinked, just once –they hadn’t discussed any internships – but it didn’t take a genius to see what Mary was up to. Mary wanted to talk to her, Betty, alone, and she clearly understood that, no matter how much Alice might dislike or resent her personally, she’d never bypass the cachet of an internship for Betty at Mary’s prestigious Chicago law firm… or any of the several publishing houses it represented.

“Of course,” Betty answered without even a beat of hesitation. “Thank you _so_ much for following up on that, Mrs. Andrews. Mom,” she added, “would you excuse me from dinner, just this once? This opportunity is too good to pass up.”

“Of course, Elizabeth,” her mother answered with the graciousness that only the lure of public acclaim could draw out of her. “Just mind your calories.”

“I will, Mom,” Betty vowed through gritted teeth. “Mrs. Andrews, do you mind if I just change clothes and grab a notebook?”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Mary answered easily. “I’ll be in the truck next door whenever you’re ready.

***

Ten minutes later, Betty was sliding into the passenger’s side of Fred’s pick-up truck, less battered than FP’s but, she noted with pride, not running nearly as well. Maybe she could give Fred’s truck a little tune-up before he got home from the hospital. The thought made her smile, which helped to counter the apprehension that had been growing steadily in her as she’d gotten ready.

She hadn’t heard from Mary, other than a brief acknowledgement of the texts she’d sent on Wednesday night, detailing Jughead’s injuries and terminating her own friendship with Archie. Was Mary angry with her? Was she going to berate her for tattling, or for taking Juggie’s side… or for blocking Archie last night?

Mary obviously read her mood. “Relax, kiddo,” she said, glancing sidelong at Betty as she drove. I’m not spiriting you into the woods to murder you and dismember your corpse… plausible as that scenario may seem in light of recent local events.” 

Betty laughed, and the knot of anxiety in her belly loosened just a little. “Well, there goes _that_ theory,” she said mock-ruefully. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure... apart from fictional internships, of course."

“There’s a diner about 15 miles out of town on the old highway,” Mary answered. “The burgers aren’t quite as good as Pop’s, but the likelihood of running into nosy neighbours is significantly less. And the onion rings are, according to my graceless son, ‘legit.’”

Betty couldn’t help but laugh, even as the mention of Archie made her simultaneously angry and a little sad. She hesitated for a moment, but she’d always genuinely _liked_ Mary… felt more at ease with her than any adult she knew, including her own parents. And so she asked her question point-blank. “Are you mad at me?”

Mary huffed out a sad, little laugh. “Mad at you?” she echoed. “Mad at you for what, exactly? For being Archie’s friend all these years? For taking charge and taking care of him when Fred was shot? For giving up almost every evening since then to try to drag his ass through enough assignments that he might actually pass this school year? I’m sorry, Betty, but I’m gonna need a bit more information. Exactly which of these heinous crimes did you figure I’d be mad about?”

Betty took a deep breath, and answered as calmly as she could, given that she didn’t feel calm at all. “I was thinking more about my sending you those texts and pictures the other night… then refusing to tutor Archie anymore… and then blocking him from my phone.”

“No, I’m not mad at you, Betty,” Mary answered. She hesitated a moment, then sighed. “I’m a lot of things… I'm sad and I'm scared and I'm frustrated. But I’m also grateful – more grateful than I can tell you – that Archie has a friend like you.” 

Betty started to protest – she definitely did _not_ number herself among Archie’s friends at this point – but Mary wasn’t finished yet.

“No matter how mad you are at Archie right now – and after seeing those photos, and then seeing Jughead in-person, I’m pretty PO’d at him myself – you are still being a good friend to him.”

“I’ve told you _and_ him that I want nothing to do with him,” Betty said flatly.

“You took steps to protect yourself from someone who has become dangerously erratic,” Mary countered firmly. “That’s the action of a wise and a strong person. But you didn’t just step back and leave him to crash and burn alone. You called _me_. You saw that there is something seriously, desperately _wrong_ with my child, and you brought it to the attention of someone who has both the resources and the responsibility to help. And _that_ is the action of a true friend.”

Betty’s eyes were tearing up, but before she could even imagine what else to say, Mary wiped her own eyes and spoke briskly. “We still have lots to talk about. But unless you want me to wrap us both around a tree, we’re saving the heavy stuff until we are safely parked and in possession of caloric reinforcements. Until then, let’s keep it light. Tell me… tell me about your homecoming dress,” she suggested as if grasping at straws.

“Well, I _would_ ,” Betty answered, following her lead to lighten the mood, “but as I recall, you were actually _at_ my sixth birthday party, so you’ve pretty much seen it already. Just picture that… but bigger, and in silver rather than pink.”

Mary laughed out loud at that. “Betty Cooper,” she said with a smile, “this may turn out to be the best afternoon I’ve had since I got home.”


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this chapter was quite different... and I honestly wasn't that happy with it. The pace felt wrong, and Betty and Mary's conversation felt stilted and blah. And then Diokomen commented on Chapter 61, asking why Fred and Mary broke up. That was a whole back story that lived in my head, but I hadn't intended to include in this fic. I couldn't let go of the question, though, and ended up completely re-drafting chapters 63 - 65 in order to work this in. Oddly enough, this version of the conversation makes me happier than the original did. Hoping it works for all of you, too... especially Diokomen! :)

### Chapter 64

“So, you blocked Archie,” Mary said without preamble when they were seated in a tiny, but immaculately clean, roadside diner and had both ordered burgers accompanied by what their server quaintly referred to as ‘a butt load of onion rings.’ “What don’t I know yet?”

“I’m sorry?” Betty blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden abandonment of the inconsequential small talk they’d maintained on the drive over.

“He beat the crap out of Jughead _days_ ago,” Mary pointed out. “And I know for a fact that Archie texted you, and received at least one answer last night. So you _didn’t_ block him for the beating. It stands to reason that something else has happened – since last night, apparently – that was the last straw for you.”

Betty tried to smile, but it felt stiff and awkward. “You must be a really good lawyer,” she said, trying to make a joke of it.

“I am, but that’s not what I asked you,” Mary answered.

Betty sighed. Rather than answering, she pulled out her phone and opened her text history with Archie. Wordlessly, she passed it to his mother. It took Mary only seconds to read the brief exchange, and then she sighed too as she returned the phone to Betty.

“You did the right thing, Betty,” she said gently.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” Betty admitted. “I feel… guilty.”

“Why is that, do you think?” Mary asked her, and Betty shook her head.

“Look, Mrs. Andrews…”

“Mary,” she corrected.

“ _Mary_ ,” Betty amended. “Something is wrong… _very_ wrong with Archie. It’s beyond obvious that he needs help. And I… I just don’t care.”

“You don’t?” Mary challenged.

“I don’t,” Betty repeated firmly. 

“You cared enough to call _me_ ,” Mary pointed out.

Betty saw her point, but couldn’t take too much credit. “I just want him to stay the hell away from me and mine.”

“Well, you’re about to get _that_ wish, kiddo,” Mary told her. “He’s moving to Chicago, to live with me.”

“Chicago?” Betty echoed blankly, having been caught completely off-guard.

“Fred and I think it’s for the best,” Mary answered simply. “Look, we don’t know any more than you do about what’s going on with Archie, but it’s beyond obvious that it isn’t good. Chicago has far more resources to offer than Riverdale. Whatever, he needs, we can get it there. And going through therapy or counselling or whatever it is he needs is hard enough without the relentless scrutiny of a small town.”

Betty nodded slowly. Everything Mary was saying made sense, but…

“What about Fred?” she asked. “He can’t just come home to an empty house when he’s released from the hospital! I mean, I can stop by and check on him… maybe take him his supper…”

“Betty Cooper to the rescue,” Mary teased, and Betty could feel her cheeks flushing. “That’s very sweet, but unnecessary. When Archie and I leave, Fred’s parents are going to move into his place until he’s well enough to travel. And then he’s moving to Florida to live with them.”

“Florida?” Betty echoed, beginning to feel like a parrot as she repeated Mary’s words back to her again and again.

“So… can I hire you for a housesitting gig?” Mary asked humourously. “Not to live there full-time, obviously – if you did that, I’d have to move back here just to watch Alice’s conniption fit – but just to keep an eye on the place, keep the dust or the local wildlife from taking it over?”

“What, you mean like the football team?” Betty asked shrewdly, and Mary laughed out loud.

“I was thinking more of mice,” she grinned, “but keeping Reggie Mantle and the rest of the team out of there is an excellent idea, too. So… are you available? We’d pay you, of course.”

“Of course, Mrs. Andrews…. _Mary_ ,” Betty corrected herself when she caught Mary’s gimlet eye on her. “I’ll be happy to help, but you don’t have to pay me to just keep an eye on the place. I mean… I can see it from my bedroom window.”

“Don’t sell yourself or your time so short, Betty,” Mary told her. “We’re asking you to do us a big favour… and I promise, you won’t be buying any private islands with your wages. But it’s a more economical choice for us than hiring a property management company to look after the place. And it’s pretty much the only way I can convince Fred that he can safely move to Florida and focus his energy on getting well. _All_ of that is worth something to us… to both of us.” Her smile as she talked about Fred was fond, and Betty found herself doing what she never did… speaking up without thinking it through first.

“You guys were always so great together,” she said impulsively. “What happened?” The words were out of her mouth before she’d even realized she was thinking them – not that it was the first time the thought had crossed her mind – and then she gasped at her own audacity. For as long as she could remember, the Andrews had been her vision of the perfect couple… they had the kind of relationship her childhood self imagined for her and Archie. Even now, years after their divorce, they spoke to and of one another with unmistakable warmth, appearing far more connected than most couples she knew, her own parents included.

But the question was so personal… far, far _too_ personal, even if they’d been two adults, speaking as equals. From a teenager to the mother of one of her oldest friends… it was unpardonable, and Betty felt her cheeks burning with shame even as her eyes stung with tears. “I am so, _so_ sorry,” she whispered, barely able to choke the words out.

Before she could apologize further, though, Mary had waved her off with the most genuine smile she’d displayed all afternoon.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” she said, and she truly seemed to mean it. “I’m actually kind of glad you asked.”

“Ummm… why?” Betty asked, too genuinely stunned to choose her words this time. And honestly, there hardly seemed to be a point in delicacy now, when she’d already let fly with that last widow-maker of a question.

“Because I’ve been wanting to tell you about it, one way or another, for years. But for me to bring it up would just seem… narcissistic,” Mary answered.

With an effort, Betty closed her gaping mouth. This conversation was just getting stranger. “You wanted to talk to _someone_ about it?” she asked, trying to clarify.

“Nope. Just you,” Mary answered cheerfully and, as abrupt and unsettling as the change in her demeanour was, it was also reassuring to see her habitual sparkle return in place of her serious mien when they had discussed Archie.

“But… _why_?” Betty asked again, more urgently this time.

“Because I’ve been worried – terrified, actually – for years that it would happen to you, too,” Mary answered, which only served to increase Betty’s bafflement.

“That… _Fred_ and I would end up divorced… from each other?” she asked incredulously, and then sat back in relieved confusion as Mary gave way to a peal of laughter that seemed to go on and on, and drew answering smiles from the handful of other patrons at the diner.

“Oh, kiddo,” Mary gasped at last, wiping her eyes, “if you could only see your face!” At last she sobered, but though her expression became serious again, her eyes were warm and alight with her customary vivacity. “Not Fred. _Archie_ ,” she clarified… although Betty still didn’t find her point all that clear. “I’ve been watching you two grow up together, and it’s all just so heartbreakingly familiar. I’ve been worried for _years_ that you two would get married one day… and if you _did_? I can promise you, 20 years down the road, it would be _you_ sitting in some diner having this discussion with some young girl who can’t understand where it all went wrong.”

Betty shook her head, wanting to understand, but still confused, and Mary sighed.

“I was _you_ , Betty Cooper,” Mary said simply. “The good girl… the honour student… the planner and the organizer that everyone counted on… the valedictorian…”

“I’m not the valedictorian yet,” Betty interrupted to object.

“You will be,” Mary said dismissively. “The point is, I was the poster child for what the flower of Riverdale’s young womanhood was supposed to be.

“And Fred? He was Archie. _Our_ Archie… the one you grew up with, _not_ the one I’m dragging off to Chicago before he manages to ruin his life or end someone else’s.” She trailed off, and her brooding expression returned, but she shook it off quickly. “Fred was sweet and loyal and friends with absolutely _everyone_. He never thought too hard about anything, never failed to take people at their own estimation. He played sports and had a band and everyone loved him, and I honestly don’t think it ever even _occurred_ to him to use his social position to bully or exclude anyone.

“And we were best friends – inseparable, really – from the time we could toddle… just like you and Archie. So, naturally, I fell in love with him, hard and irrevocably, by the time I was eight years old.” She smiled sadly, reminiscently. “He broke my heart again and again over the years, first by taking what seemed to me like an _inordinately_ long time to start noticing girls… and then by seeming to notice every girl in town _except_ me. I watched him date Hermione and Penelope and Sierra…”

By now, Betty was smiling too, albeit reluctantly. This _did_ all sound alarmingly familiar.

“When he finally decided he loved me too, towards the end of junior year, I thought all the pieces of my life were finally falling into place… that everything would be perfect from then on.” She sighed again, not even noticing Betty’s involuntary wince at her use of the word ‘perfect.’ 

After a few moments, Mary continued. “We got married right after I finished community college,” she said softly. “Fred was already starting his company, and I worked for him doing bookkeeping and odd jobs… some unskilled labour on the sites when he couldn’t afford all the hands he needed. We were happy.”

“And then?” Betty asked, her curiosity only growing.

“We just… we didn’t want the same life, Betty,” Mary tried to explain. “He would have been perfectly happy to stay right here… to go on exactly as we were… for the rest of our lives. And maybe that should have been enough for me, too,” she mused.

“But it wasn’t?” Betty prompted, and Mary smiled at her again.

“I wanted… more… more education… more opportunity… more freedom… and a whole lot _less_ of this town’s stifling expectations and inescapable surveillance.” Betty grimaced, recalling her mother’s pointed comments about church attendance less than two hours ago.

“Fred was always very proud of what he called my ‘brains,’” Mary interrupted herself to say, “and he made a lot of sacrifices to let me go back to school, even part-time, to finish a degree… then law school. But he made them… and then here I was, a fully qualified lawyer, still keeping the books for Andrews construction and hoping two or three of Riverdale’s upright citizens would decide to contest their parking tickets each year, just to provide me some courtroom work.

“I felt like I was suffocating… stagnating…

“And it wasn’t just about work,” she added. “It was the _expectations_ … the way the whole town thought they knew exactly who I was, and felt they had a right to push me back into the role they’d cast me in anytime I put a toe out of line. I was learning all these _things_ … about life, about myself… I was growing up… and they kept trying to force me back into a little box of who I’d been in high school… a box that didn’t fit me anymore… a box that maybe never fit me all that well to begin with.” Betty felt her heart squeeze at that, at the poignant, painful expression of the frustration that so often choked her, the anguish that drove her nails into her own palms in order to push down her own urge to scream her rage at her own, ill-fitting box.

“All I wanted was to get _out_ of this town,” Mary was telling her, “to get away from my parents’ pride and my neighbours’ expectations and your mother’s snide little comments. I wanted to go to New York… Chicago… London… hell, even _Dubuque_ ,” she laughed. “Quite literally, _anywhere_ but here.

“And all Fred wanted was to stay right here, to keep everything exactly as it was. He was fine with me growing and changing, but he didn’t see why I wanted to leave town to do it. As far as he was concerned, I could do what I wanted, and tell the old tabbies of the town to go to hell.

“It got so I felt like I couldn’t breathe here in Riverdale. And Fred didn’t even really enjoy long weekends away. He loves this town… feels like he’s jumping out of his skin when he’s anywhere else.

“He did everything he could, Betty. He tried to give me all the ‘more’ in the world, right here… more education, more trips…

“But what I really needed was more _air_ than I could find in Riverdale. And he needed more roots than he could find anywhere else.”

“And so, you left,” Betty concluded, her heart aching with empathy, her eyes brimming over with tears she’d barely even noticed.

“I left,” Mary agreed. “The only fight we ever really had was about Archie. I wanted to take him with me; Fred wouldn’t let him go. And Fred was right. I was working 80 hours a week back then. There’s no way I could have been a single mother, too, and given Archie the kind of attention that Fred lavished on him here.”

They fell silent for a moment, and Betty assumed Mary was finished, but Mary surprised her yet again.

“You are bigger than this town, Betty Cooper,” she said seriously, “and you’re bigger than the box it’ll squeeze you into if you let it. I’d hate to see you break your own heart, and Archie’s, because you tied yourself to Riverdale or to him, before you ever got a chance to see what else the world has in store for you.”


	65. Chapter 65

### Chapter 65

“Chicago???” Veronica’s voice was shrill and at least twice its normal volume, and Betty winced as she held her phone further away from her ear. “Archie’s moving to _Chicago_???”

“Hi, V,” she responded to the unconventional greeting her friend had favoured her with when she answered her phone. “Archie told you already?”

It was Sunday night, barely three hours after Mary had dropped her off… along with a stack of notes on actual internships in Chicago to throw her mother off the scent, and a head that was spinning with all the news Mary had shared over burgers and a small mountain of exceptionally good onion rings.

Veronica scoffed angrily. “Archie hasn’t told me squat,” she answered. “Mary dropped by this afternoon to give me the heads-up. I take it he told _you_ himself?”

“Nope,” Betty was pleased to be able to assure her. “I got it from the maternal grapevine, too.”

“Archie didn’t tell you?” Veronica pressed.

“Nope,” Betty again, this time popping the ‘p’ with relish.

“He didn’t even _try_?” Veronica probed skeptically.

“No idea,” Betty told her honestly. “I blocked him yesterday.

“Savage,” Veronica commented appreciatively. “I should do that, too… not that he’s _trying_ to reach me anyway.”

“Even if he _did_ , it’s not like a call or text would set off sirens, V,” Betty told her, suppressing a smile. “I’m pretty sure he just gets no answer.”

“Well, _that’s_ no fun,” Veronica said, and Betty could practically hear the pout in her voice. “What’s the point of blocking someone if they don’t even know you’ve done it?”

“Ummm… to _not_ hear from them?” Betty suggested dryly.

“I guess,” Veronica sighed extravagantly. “But I, for one, believe it would be more satisfying to not hear from them _and_ smack them around a little.”

Betty laughed, but also shuddered. Jughead’s injuries were still too fresh in her mind for “smacking” of any kind to appeal to her, and… “I’ll _happily_ settle for just not hearing from him,” she admitted aloud.

“What’d he do to get blocked?” Veronica asked curiously. “I mean, _since_ rearranging Jughead’s facial features along more abstract lines.”

“Demanded to see me, and told me I ‘owed it to him,’” Betty answered succinctly, angry all over again as she thought of it.

“It’s official,” Veronica replied crisply. “The current call-blocking technology is _woefully_ inadequate to the needs of the modern woman. Upon activation, it should reject the call… _and_ punch the caller in the nuts.”

Betty laughed again. She couldn’t help herself. “You know that I love you, right?” she asked impulsively.

“Naturally,” Veronica answered breezily, as though it were a foregone conclusion, but then her tone abruptly softened. “I do love you, too, Betty Mildred Cooper. That vow of ours was, hands-down, the best deal any Lodge has ever negotiated.”

Betty smiled sadly; never letting a boy come between them had been a bittersweet vow for her all those months ago when she’d assumed it meant she’d have to smile sweetly from the sidelines as Archie and Veronica rode off into a sunset reserved for the beautiful people. She’d never have imagined instead an outcome where Archie and Veronica fell apart… because of his feelings, real or imagined, for _her_.

And she’d never have _believed_ how much worse this outcome would feel.

“You should have at least included a few clauses about automotive maintenance,” she joked feebly, trying to lighten the mood, “if you really wanted to wrap up the title.”

“Gilding the lily,” Veronica dismissed. “Trading an Archie for a Betty is _more_ than enough of an upgrade for anyone who knows quality.”

“Well, far be it from me to argue with a Lodge on questions of quality,” Betty managed around the lump in her throat. “Did Mary say when they’re leaving?” she asked, more to change the subject than out of any real curiosity.

“By the middle of the week,” Veronica answered in a suspiciously neutral tone.

“That’s fast!” Betty said, startled.

“It makes sense,” Veronica countered, still clearly controlling her voice to sound offhand. “Archie’s not going back to Riverdale High, so they don’t have to wait for the weekend. Mary’s already got her place in Chicago all furnished, so they don’t have to move house. It’s really just a question of packing a couple of suitcases. _And_ I got the impression that she and Fred want Archie out of here before he attacks Jughead again, or abducts you and tries to scale the Empire State Building.”

Betty couldn’t even laugh at that imagery, try as she might. It was all so _sad_. And yet…

“I just want him gone,” she sighed. “I don’t want to have to see him or talk to him again… Does that make me a coward?”

“Are you a _coward_ for not wanting to come face to face with an angry, erratic beefcake who recently savaged your boyfriend and appears to have an obsession of Fatal Attraction proportions with you?” Veronica asked rhetorically. “I’m going with a hard ‘no’ on that one, Ms. Cooper. If anything, I’d say it makes you a survivor.”

“What about you?” Betty suddenly thought to ask. “Are you going to see him before he goes… say goodbye, or…” she trailed off awkwardly.

“Not a chance,” Veronica answered categorically. “See above re: angry, erratic savage. Not that I think avoiding him will be any great challenge for _me_ ; as best I can tell, he’s lost all recollection of my existence.

“I’m so sorry, V,” Betty sighed.

“Well, I’m not terribly hilarious about it myself,” Veronica acknowledged. “But that’s not why I called.”

“Oh, was there a reason?” Betty asked, unable to resist a bit of teasing. “Apart from piercing my eardrums with excessive decibels, that is?”

“There was,” Veronica confirmed, “and you may take note that I am _graciously_ ignoring your ‘nice girl’ attempt at snark. But I originally called to tell you that Smithers and I will pick you up for school tomorrow morning… every morning, actually, until Archie Andrews is safely on a plane to Chicago and out of our lives.”

“You don’t have to do that, Veronica,” Betty protested weakly, even as relief flooded her. 

“’Have to’ isn’t part of the equation, Mildred,” Veronica answered, in her New York voice. “This is happening.”

Betty didn’t protest any further; she’d far rather be beholden to friends for a few days’ transportation than have to worry about being accosted by Archie on the walk to or from school… and she _had_ been worrying about it. But despite her relief, when she and Veronica hung up a few moments later, her heart was heavy. No matter how thickly Veronica laid on the attitude, none of it served to mask her hurt at the disintegration of her nascent relationship with Archie. And yet, here she was, doing her best to make sure _Betty_ was okay. It was ironic, really, that Veronica considered Betty to be the “nice girl” in their friendship, and was completely blind to her own generosity.

She was still worried about Jughead, too. It wasn’t just his physical injuries that concerned her. With his father in jail, his mother’s abandonment, and his own subsequent move to live with strangers on the south side, he was already grappling with so much change and loss. The defection of his best friend had to hurt him on a deeper level than just his bruises. And, though she felt guilty at the thought, she couldn’t shake a sad, little chill of fear that this would sever his ties with his old life completely… and push him further away from her.

And then there was Archie. She didn’t believe for a second that her old friend was in love with her. She was beginning to have a pretty clear sense of what love was, or at least what it meant to her… and it had absolutely nothing in common with the ways the Archie was treating her or talking about her. But her conversations with Jughead and Mary, coupled with Archie’s attack on Jughead and the increasingly controlling and demanding tone of his comments towards her, had served to convince Betty that he was fixated on her in some way that he described to himself as love… and that he was dangerous.

A part of her mourned the loss of her oldest friendship.

But a bigger part of her wanted nothing in the world so much as the assurance of knowing that Archie Andrews was safely out of her life… and that his rage and his fists and his weird obsessions were as far away from Jughead as possible.


	66. Chapter 66

### Chapter 66

“Are you up?”

Jughead smiled reminiscently as Betty’s text lit up the screen of the same, battered, second-hand phone on which he’d received an identical message, months past. The words and the equipment were the same, but virtually everything else had changed.

Betty was his girlfriend now, for one thing, rather than just a friend he had a desperate crush on, who’d let him kiss her one time.

His father was in jail, for another.

And, of course, instead of lying on a leaky air mattress on Archie Andrew’s bedroom floor, he was tucked into a comfortable bed in a tiny room of his own on the South Side… trying to recover from injuries Archie had given him.

Well, he thought ruefully, you win some, you lose some.

“Sure,” he texted back now, exactly as he had on that other night, in another lifetime. “What’s up?”

Seconds after he hit “send,” his phone rang.

“Hey there, Juliet,” he said, not even bothering to check the number. Betty laughed softly on the other end of the line, and warmth curled in his belly at the sound.

“Hey yourself,” she answered. “How are you feeling, Romeo?”

Jughead toyed briefly with the idea of stoically disavowing all pain, but dismissed it as stupidly macho. The truth was, he was hurting… badly. “Like Tybalt won this round,” he admitted.

“You’re in pain?” Betty said, her concern as palpable as a touch.

“It’ll start feeling better soon,” he temporized.

“Meaning it _hasn’t_ started feeling better yet,” Betty interpreted shrewdly. Jughead couldn’t help but laugh, which was a mistake his broken ribs protested vociferously.

“Ouch,” he said when he could catch his breath. “You shouldn’t make me laugh.”

“I wasn’t _trying_ to be funny, Betty pointed out.

“Unfair,” he protested, even as a smile tugged at his lips. “You’re wielding logic against an injured man.”

“I’m not sure that ‘injured’ is the element in that sentence that makes the use of logic unfair,” Betty teased, and Jughead resisted the impulse to laugh again. _God_ , he loved her quickness.

“A hit, a very palpable hit,” he murmured. “But to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Even over the phone, he could sense the shift in Betty’s mood, the sudden ratcheting up of her tension.

“I can’t check in to see how my battle-scarred champion is feeling?” she asked, and he could tell she was stalling.

“You can, and frequently _do_ ,” he answered mildly, “but something tells me that’s not what this is.”

“Am I that transparent?” Betty sighed.

“Yes… but in a good way,” Jughead assured her, and smiled again when he heard her laugh.

“You’re lucky you’re already injured,” she told him mildly. “I had a visitor today.”

“Okay,” Jughead said tentatively, not sure what reaction was appropriate.

“It _is_ okay,” Betty agreed forcefully, as if she were trying to convince herself, rather than him. “It’s fine. It’s just weird. I mean… it’s fine, but it’s weird.”

“Was any of that meant to enlighten me?” Jughead asked patiently. “Because, I have to tell you, I feel like I’m missing some salient details.” He was struggling to keep his tone neutral and calm, even as a sudden tension coiled in his belly. Was it Archie? Had the redhead hurt or threatened Betty in some way? But… she sounded merely uncomfortable, not traumatized… didn’t she?”

“It was Mary,” Betty said in a rush.

“Mary?” he echoed blankly, the words so unexpected they were virtually meaningless to him.

“Mary Andrews,” Betty clarified. “Archie’s mom?”

“Oh,” Jughead said as he recognized the name, and then “ _Oh_ ,” again as the penny dropped. “That _is_ weird.”

“Well _she_ wasn’t weird,” Betty hastened to assume him. “She was actually really lovely. But… yeah, having her come to the house, looking for me, was… unexpected.”

“So what did she want?” Jughead asked, not needing to feign even a bit of his curiosity.

“To talk,” Betty answered simply, “a lot.”

“About?” Jughead prompted her.

“About literature, Juggie, and fine art!” Betty snapped sarcastically. “What would you expect her to talk to me about? She wanted to talk about Archie!”

He’d been stupid to ask, of course. The answer was as obvious as it was unbearable, Archie’s name tying Jughead in knots for more reasons than he could even name. Hurt and betrayal and sadness and loss and anger and inadequacy… terror that Archie would somehow hurt Betty, too… a sad, heartsick longing for the friend who had stood by him through the darkest days of his life… and endless disgust with himself for still longing for someone who had proven, very clearly, that he was no longer a friend.

“What about him?” he asked, working overtime to keep his chaotic emotions out of his voice, to keep his tone even and mildly inquisitive.

“Well, he’s moving to Chicago, for one thing,” Betty told him, and he nearly dropped his phone in surprise.

“What… _what_???” he asked incredulously, almost sure he must have misheard her.

“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction, too,” Betty told him, and he realized he’d probably heard her correctly after all. And that’s barely scratching the surface. They’re going pretty scorched earth at the moment. Fred’s sold the company… to the Lodges, no less. His parents are moving in until he’s well enough to travel, and then _he’s_ moving with them to their condo in Florida.

“I’ll be housesitting,” she added inconsequentially. “Go, me.”

“That’s… a lot of information,” Jughead told her blankly, feeling to stunned by the barrage of surprises to fully process any of them.

“Didn’t see all _that_ coming, did you?” Betty asked, and he could hear his own overwhelm underpinning her assumed levity.

“I don’t think ‘no’ is a strong enough word,” he answered, his head still spinning. Then another thought occurred to him. “How’s Archie taking all of this,” he asked cautiously.

“No idea,” Betty answered, and he could practically hear her shrug through the phone. “Not well, I’m assuming, since he’s not doing _anything_ particularly gracefully these days. But that is, very definitely, _not_ my problem.”

“It’s not,” Jughead agreed, trying to keep the skepticism out of his own voice. He was one hundred per cent on board that Betty didn’t owe Archie a damned thing.

But he also _knew_ Betty. And, knowing her as he did, it was hard to imagine her detaching so thoroughly that it didn’t bother her even a little bit… that she could close this door, keep her distance, and turn off her life-long instinct to nurture, to protect, and to fix.

“Not,” Betty confirmed again, her voice as confident as he’d ever heard it. “He burned his bridges with the crap he said about Veronica… and me, for that matter. He threw gasoline on the flames when he turned his fists on you. Whatever I might owe him from our years of friendship, I paid in full when I contacted his mom. He’s got access to all the help he could possibly need, if he wants it. And he’s made his own bed if he doesn’t. I told Fred and Mary I’m done, and I meant it.”

“No argument here,” Juhgead told her fervently. “But are you telling me what you _know_ to be true, or what you actually _believe_?”

Betty huffed out a small laugh. “You know me too well, Jug,” she told him.

“Not as well as I want to,” he answered quickly, honestly. “You’re endlessly fascinating, and my life’s ambition is to become the world’s leading expert on Betty Cooper.”

He could hear the smile in her voice when she answered. “So… mostly both?” she answered his question from a moment earlier, though she no longer sounded so absolute. “I know everything I just said is true. And I believe it at, like, 85 per cent. But… I still feel about 15 per cent guilty and crappy.”

“You shouldn’t,” Jughead told her, even as he appreciated her honesty.

“Baby steps, Jug,” she told him and he could tell she was still smiling. “I was only at about 60 per cent confidence this morning, but Mary gave me a pep talk.”

“She helped?” Jughead asked, slightly surprised. Mary’s unwavering, unconditional, and often undeserved love and loyalty for her son was one of the few certainties of his life.

“Sure did,” Betty answered laconically. “She told me, categorically, that I’d done the right thing… that cutting Archie out of my life was not just acceptable, but necessary, and that calling her was a kindness rather than a betrayal. And she actually _loves_ that giant, gaping asshole, so I have to believe it’s true, coming from her.”

Jughead smiled appreciatively, still reminding himself not to laugh. “So you’re okay?” he asked, wanting to be sure.

“I’ll be better on Wednesday,” Betty admitted, “once all chance of running into Archie is past.

“ _Wednesday_ ,” Jughead echoed, back to being stunned. “He’s leaving Wednesday? That’s… abrupt.”

“Fred and Mary are pretty freaked out,” Betty answered simply. “The attack on you – which, apparently, Archie doesn’t even _remember_ , by the way – has them running scared. They figure they have a limited window of opportunity to get him help before it’s too late. So they’ve pulled him out of school and… presto. Veronica drives me to school for a few days, and then I don’t have to worry about him ever again.”

“You’re actually scared he’d hurt you?” Jughead asked, surprised again, given that Betty had always seemed to have a bit of a blind spot where their old friend was concerned.

“I’m more just scared and anxious in general,” Betty answered. “I mean, at this point, I can’t rule anything out. But mostly, I’m not worried about him hitting me or anything… I just dread bumping into him. I don’t want to see his face… don’t want to hear his side of the story. And, to be honest, I’m almost more scared of what I might do to him!”

“Like what?” Jughead asked, reminding himself again not to laugh.

“Oh, I dunno, Jug,” Betty said coldly. “Like drugging him and almost drowning him in a hot tub, maybe? Remember Chuck?”

Jughead kicked himself mentally, unable to believe he’d actually forgotten Chuck… that he’d fallen into the trap the rest of Riverdale had, of seeing only Betty’s surface sweetness and failing to observe the deep wells of anger and darkness that lurked beneath. Still…

“That was different,” he protested. “He slut shamed Veronica and was part of a club that systematically exploited and abused your sister and a bunch of other girls.”

“And Archie could have _killed_ you!” Betty shrieked, and he nearly dropped the phone again in his surprise at the raw, palpable rage that was suddenly audible in her voice. “He _exploited_ Veronica, and then rejected everything about her but her body… he won her trust and then he treated it as worthless and, if I didn’t say it loud enough the first time, he could have fucking _killed_ you!!!”

Oddly, out of nowhere, Jughead found himself thinking again about the morning after Social Services first visited him at the Andrews house… the morning when Betty had taken a sledgehammer to her mother’s old shed. He couldn’t help but wonder if _this_ would have been the result, had she not had a physical outlet that day. It was chilling.”

But what chilled him even more was what she _hadn’t_ included in her recital of Archie’s sins.

“Betts, I’m not exactly looking to make you _angrier_ at a moment like this,” he told her cautiously, “but I feel like you’re just… ignoring the fact that Archie said some pretty awful things about _you_ , too. It… honestly, it scares me a little that none of this ‘angry’ seems to be on your own behalf. It’s like… you’re so invested in protected Veronica and me, you’re not even _noticing_ that you’re under attack.”

Betty laughed shrilly, a slight edge of hysteria to the sound, but when she spoke, she actually sounded calmer. “Jughead, the stuff Archie said about me to you, to his mom… it’s nothing. It’s _less_ than nothing.

“He already said the worst thing imaginable about me… months ago. Don’t you remember?” Jughead shook his head, forgetting Betty couldn't see him, wanting to understand where she was coming from, but not understanding at all. “It was after the back-to-school formal, Jug,” she told him. I told him I loved him,” Jughead couldn’t help but wince at that, even all these months later, even as he knew that she loved _him_ now. “And he told me that we didn’t belong together… that I was too ‘perfect’ for him. _Perfect_ ,” she added, practically spitting the word out. “He might as well have just said ‘I’ve spent half my life with you, and I have never seen even the slightest reason to get to know who you really are.

“We were friends all those years, Jug… _years_. And he never even really noticed me; he was too mesmerized by his own reflection in my eyes. 

“I forgave him for that – for all of it – ages ago. But I haven’t forgotten the lesson I learned… that Archie’s not really my friend. He’s just… part of the wallpaper of my childhood. Why in the world should I care what he thinks of me now, when he’s already proved he doesn’t know the first thing about me?”


	67. Chapter 67

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've fallen behind again on responding to individual comments. Finding time to write _and_ respond has just been a challenge lately. I _will_ get responses out eventually, but in the meantime, please take this as a heartfelt, blanket 'thank you' for all of the amazing love and feedback you've poured out as this fic has progressed. Your comments and kudos have exceeded my wildest imaginings when I started this project about a year ago, and they continue to inspire and encourage me to keep carving out the time to write in the midst of all of 'real life's' busy-ness. I'm so thankful for the wonderful community of fellow Riverdale fans that I've discovered here!

### Chapter 67

Betty Cooper couldn’t sleep. She was tired… well past tired, in fact, her eyes hot and dry, her mind buzzing with the hyper-clarity that always came upon her with exhaustion. It was rare for her to have trouble falling asleep. She hadn’t been sleeping well since Jughead moved to the south side, it was true, her sleep plagued by nightmares that woke her, sobbing, in the wee hours of the morning and left her too terrified and tense to go back to sleep. But it was only _staying_ asleep that normally gave her trouble; she typically fell asleep quickly and easily. It was one of the few compensations of being constantly tired from her poor quality of sleep.

Tonight was different. She lay in her pretty white bed in her pretty pink bedroom, trying to pretend to herself that her problem was simply a lack of fresh air and exercise. True to her word, Veronica had brought Smithers to the Coopers’ front door yesterday morning and again this morning, delivering her home at the end of both school days. So, _naturally_ , her current sleeplessness must be due to two days of missing her pre-and post-school walks… or so she assured herself.

The truth, of course, was a little more complicated. Betty felt antsy, anxious and off balance, and her thoughts were an unsettling whirl made worse by the exaggerated clarity of her sleep-starved mind.

For one thing, she was worried about Jughead, still painfully convalescing from what he had termed, in a blatantly obvious attempt to lighten the mood, “our late unpleasantness.” She’d stopped by the Fosters’ yesterday evening to check on him, and to deliver a care package: bone broth she’d made on the weekend, horsetail tea and a shower chair she’d ordered on Amazon for next day delivery… in short, everything the self-styled 'experts' of the Internet had suggested might help his bones to knit more quickly, or make his day-to-day living a little easier. His bruises and cuts were healing nicely; he was beginning to look a little more like himself. His ribs were another story, though. He still had to sleep sitting up in a recliner, or propped on a stack of pillows, to ease his breathing. He was still at risk of pneumonia or lung infection if he didn’t keep forcing himself to take deep breaths, no matter how much it hurt. And it would be at least a couple of weeks before he’d be back at school.

Despite the noticeable improvements in his more superficial injuries, Jughead’s pallor and obvious pain had frightened Betty… so much so that he’d finally and reluctantly admitted he wasn’t taking the painkillers the doctor had prescribed, except for a half dose at nighttime to dull the pain just enough to let him sleep.

“Jug, that’s _crazy_!” she’d protested, aghast. “Why the _hell_ aren’t you taking your meds?”

“They won’t make a bit of difference in my healing,” he’d ground out, as if that were some kind of answer. “They’re just painkillers.”

“So???” she’d demanded. “What’s wrong with killing a little of the pain?”

“For someone with a _normal_ family, probably nothing,” he’d countered. “For me, though? Could be everything.” He’d been flushing then, not quite meeting her eyes as if he was embarrassed by something. When he’d chanced a glance at her, though, he’d seemed to realize she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “My dad’s an alcoholic, Betty,” he’d told her, his flush deepening, his voice both frustrated and somehow ashamed, as if she didn’t already know about FP’s drinking… as if she hadn’t known about it for _years_ , even if this was the first time the word had been spoken between them.

“So?” she’d asked again, baffled and beginning to get a little angry. “That means you have to… what? Do penance?”

“It means I’m five times as likely to become an addict myself, compared to someone _without_ an addicted parent,” Jughead had answered, as if it should be obvious. “And these days, it seems like half the junkies on the streets started with drugs they got legally, with a prescription. I’m not taking that risk.”

“When did you become such an expert?” she’d asked him, impressed enough by his fund of knowledge on the subject to be momentarily diverted from her point.

“I’ve been Googling addiction research since middle school,” Jughead had answered, his eyes sliding away from her again as he added, “ever since I realized that other kids’ dads didn’t miss mortgage payments because they’d spent their paycheques at the White Wyrm, or get fired because they showed up to work two hours late and still drunk from the night before.”

Her heart had broken for him, for his lonely and erratic childhood, even as she desperately wanted him to have some comfort now. “Juggie,” she’d pleaded softly, feeling helpless, “you’re in _pain_. If the doctor says this can help you…”

“The doctor admitted my concerns were valid,” he’d answered evenly. “She said she couldn’t promise me I wouldn’t get hooked.”

“But if… you’re hurting…” she’d faltered.

“It’ll be better in a few weeks,” he’d answered gruffly. “Whereas an addiction could hijack the entire rest of my life. My dad’s living proof of that. I won’t do it, Betty,” he’d preempted her next argument. “I _won’t._ ”

She’d been Googling the subject herself since she got home last night, and she really couldn’t argue with Jughead’s concerns. Which meant that now, as she lay here worrying about Jughead and the pain he was simply gritting his teeth and bearing, and the risk of pneumonia he faced, she also had the spectre of addiction dancing tantalizingly on the edges of her mind until it felt as though Jughead’s very existence was hanging by a thread.

She was planning to jog over to the Fosters’ after school tomorrow – Archie would be gone by then, and she could again move freely around town without worrying about running into him – to take Jughead a bottle each of Tylenol and Advil. If nothing else, her research had suggested he could alternate doses of both medications to mitigate his pain somewhat.

Of course, that thought brought her to another cause of tonight’s sleeplessness: Archie. Her mind was in turmoil about his departure tomorrow. He’d been her best friend, her next door neighbour, for as long as she could remember. His leaving, and the end of their friendship, felt like the official end of her childhood, and a small but stubborn part of her felt sad about that. Another, much bigger part couldn’t wait to receive the text Mary had promised to send her when she and Archie boarded their flight to Chicago. His proximity niggled constantly at the corners of her mind, leaving her feeling stretched… brittle… anxious and on edge. He was the proverbial loose cannon, a walking question mark, and his fixation on her felt both oppressive and menacing, as did his proven disregard for the safety and the feelings of the people that meant the most to her. Her heart had been in her throat for days now, fearing a confrontation… an ugly conversation, or another attack on Jughead’s already battered body. All of which had left her feeling that she wouldn’t draw a deep breath until Mary confirmed that Archie was gone from Riverdale.

While those were the main thoughts preoccupying her mind, others kept intruding as well… concern for Veronica, who’d taken such good care of Betty, but whose shadowed eyes and abstracted air made it clear she needed support herself… frustration with Polly, who seemed more and more to be channelling their mother, multiplying the pressures Betty was constantly subjected to at home… anger that FP was still in jail, his hearing deferred again on unspecified grounds… schoolwork and college applications and summer jobs and the _Blue and Gold_ …

And so, Betty lay sleepless as the clock ticked inexorably towards midnight, and then past it. A few more hours and Archie would be gone… a few more hours, and she could breathe again. A few more hours, and she wouldn’t be facing anything more menacing than convalescence and heartbreak, possible addiction and wrongful incarceration. It wasn’t necessarily a winning hand, but it looked a whole lot better than the one she was currently holding.

Her palms were itching, crying out for the bite of her nails, but she consciously kept her hands open, pressing them flat on the bed. She would _not_ add more blood to the disaster already unfolding in her town. And she would _not_ see again the look she’d seen on Jughead’s face the night he’d bandaged her bleeding hands.

Around 12:30, the momentum of her mind was interrupted by a tapping at her window. She froze in bed, certain she’d imagined, it, that her longing for Jughead’s comfort was tricking her into dreaming that he’d come to her rescue again, as he had so often before.

A few moments later, though, the tapping was repeated, louder and more insistently, and her tired mind slowly accepted that the sound was real. Wonder and worry warred within her as she sat up in bed and padded, barefoot, across the rose-patterned carpet to the window. Jughead could barely _walk_ ; how in the world had he made it across town – at this hour, no less – and climbed a ladder in the dark? How had he even moved the ladder to her window, given that he couldn’t raise his arms high enough to wash his hair easily? Had he hurt himself worse?

And yet, she couldn’t help but smile. It was so characteristic of Jughead to _know_ , without being told, when she needed him most, and to be there for her, against all reason or expectation. It almost wasn’t surprising, even as it seemed impossible.

As she pulled back her curtains, her smile felt warm, natural in a way it all-too-rarely did these days. She was so ready to see Jughead, to find the unfailing comfort of his arms, the peace his presence always brought her, that she was already reaching for the latch to raise the window before she realized that the face looking back at her wasn’t Jughead’s.

It was Archie’s.

“Arch!” she gasped, falling back a step, one hand to her chest. In that first moment, she was too shocked even to be afraid. Clearly as she could see the redhead’s face through the glass, her brain refused to process the information… to acknowledge it as real.

It didn’t seem to have even occurred to Archie that his unprecedented appearance at her window might be anything other than a delightful surprise. His expression was happy, mischievous, a smile that was achingly familiar from a million moments in their shared childhood where he’d been too excited about his own troublemaking to even attempt to conceal his glee. Many a would-be prank had been foiled by this very expression, tipping off the grown-ups that Archie was planning another ‘surprise.’ It was a smile that had kept Betty awake many long nights in middle school, listening to Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me” on an infinite loop and dreaming of the day her best friend would finally realize she was a girl. There had even been dreams, on occasion, of Archie climbing to her window and smiling at her in just this way.

But in this moment, at this point in her life, with all the changes the past months, and more particularly the past week, had wrought, that well-loved smile at her window was anything but the fulfillment of a dream. It was more like one of her nightmares, come to life.

“Betty!” he exclaimed, his eyes dancing with delight at her obvious surprise, his voice barely audible through the glass. “Open up!”

“Fuck you!” she wanted to tell him assertively, despite her usual distaste for ‘the f-bomb,’ but her mouth wouldn’t form the words. Instead, she just stared at him in mute, frozen horror. Inside, she was screaming, but her vocal chords wouldn’t produce even a whisper of sound. All she could do after that first, frozen instant was to shake her head at him slowly, eyes wide, desperately willing him to disappear.

“C’mon, Betty,” he cajoled, still oblivious to her mood, “I can’t leave without a kiss good-bye!”

It was as if the word ‘kiss’ broke the spell Betty was under. “Fuck you,” she whispered, and although there was no way he could have heard her, the darkening of his expression made it abundantly clear that he’d understood anyway.

“C’mon, Betty,” he said again, but this time his smile looked more like a grimace. “Open up.”

“No!” she answered, her voice a little louder this time, even as her mind scrabbled frantically for options, for a source of help. She was alone in the house tonight, her parents not yet home from the date night they’d made routine since Hal moved back in, Polly spending the night with Penelope and Cheryl Blossom for reasons Betty couldn’t even begin to comprehend. “Go home, Archie,” she tried.

It didn’t work.

Archie’s expression darkened still further, his teeth bared. “I’m not going _anywhere_ until we talk, Betty,” he snarled, and she fell back a step further, still unable to quite _believe_ that this was happening. “Let. Me. _IN_!” he demanded, his voice louder, clearly audible now.

Betty shook her head frantically, even as she edged towards her bed, towards the phone sitting on her perfectly pastel night stand, thinking fast about who to call.

The police seemed an obvious choice, of course. But sleepy little Riverdale’s police force was not notorious for quick deployment during the overnight hours. So little happened around here past 10 p.m., they simply hadn’t honed those late-night emergency responses the way an urban force would. The sheriff’s station felt impossibly remote right now, with an angry man leering through her window. And she couldn’t shake the fear that involving the police might delay Archie’s departure, keep him in town to post bail or face charges instead of having him board that Chicago-bound flight in a few hours.

It was that thought, more than any other, that decided her. If she could get to her phone before Archie… did whatever he was going to do… she’d call the closest source of help she could think of… the one most guaranteed to make sure Archie was on that flight as scheduled.

“ _LET ME IN_!!!” Archie roared again, his expression terrifying.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Archie,” Betty told him as loudly as she could, as she finally, _finally_ managed to reach her phone and punch in the speed dial for the Andrews’ home number. “I don’t want to _see_ you. I am _done_ with you!”

“You know that’s not true,” he snarled – literally _snarled_ – as if the sunny, easygoing friend of her childhood had never existed.

Distantly, through the phone still hidden behind her hip, Betty could hear Mary’s voice, both sleepy and worried. “Hello? Hello?”

“Archie,” Betty said as loudly as she could, trying to make sure her voice would both carry through the window _and_ get picked up by the distant speaker of her phone, “go home. I don’t want you here. You can’t just show up AT MY WINDOW and demand I let you in.”

“Shit! Betty, I’m on my way!” she heard Mary shout through the phone. She may have said more, but Betty lost it beneath Archie’s inarticulate roar of rage, the thump as he slapped his hand flat against her window, so hard that the pane cracked.

Betty stared in horror at the crack across the glass, feeling suddenly more vulnerable, more immediately threatened than she had at any point since she first spotted Archie through her window. Barely aware of what she was doing, she backed away towards her bedroom door, torn between the need to flee as quickly as possible, and her deep, visceral reluctance to turn her back on Archie… to let him loom behind her without knowing what he was doing.

Right now, he was staring at the cracked glass, just as she was and, like her, he seemed to have realized the vulnerability that crack implied, recognized that the barrier between them was not impenetrable. He raised his eyes, bright with rage, and grinned at her menacingly.

“Are you gonna come back here and let me in?” he asked her, his voice no longer a roar, but still loud enough to travel easily through the glass. “Or shall I let _myself_ in?” Quickly, his eyes scanned the window, as if choosing a place to strike. Then, with another evil leer, he pulled back a tightly clenched fist. In his rage, though, he seemed to have forgotten where he was, forgotten that he was perched on a ladder that was resting uncertainly on the frozen ground, forgotten the need to balance his weight. Which was why, as he swung back, preparing to punch through the window, he lost his balance, flailing for a frantic moment with a confused expression on his face.

Then, Betty screamed as Archie tumbled out of sight.


	68. Chapter 68

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gradually catching up on comments, but let me just say here that you are all AMAZING! Thank you for reading, thank you for commenting, thank you for kudos, and thank you to the many of you who keep creating amazing works of your own, and still finding time to support others (including me). You are the actual BEST!

### Chapter 68

As the bell rang Wednesday afternoon, signalling the end of the day at Riverdale High, Jughead shifted his weight, leaning a little more heavily against the railing that stood across the school’s circular driveway, giving him an unobstructed view of the front door. He wanted to be sure to see Betty as soon as she emerged… had been half-crazed to see her for hours, ever since he’d received a text from her a little past 1:00 the past… morning? Or night?

“Call me when you get this please,” her message read. “I don’t care what time.”

He’d pressed the call button within seconds. He’d been fretfully awake anyway, and it was more than obvious that Betty wasn’t sleeping. More than that, though, something about her message had filled him with a deep unease, a sense of urgency.

She’d answered on the first ring, her breathing ragged and uneven, as if she were crying. “Juggie?” she’d whispered.

“It’s me,” he’d told her, his heart pounding in terror. “What’s going on? What do you need?”

She’d drawn a deep, shuddering breath before she answered. “This,” she’d said simply. “I just… I needed _this_ … to hear your voice.” Her own voice had cracked on her last words, and Jughead’s heart had constricted even more painfully.

“Did you have another nightmare?” he’d guessed, wishing he could be there to hold her.

But she’d made a strange sound, half laugh, half sob. “Yeah,” she’d choked out. “Only this time, I wasn’t asleep.”

He hadn’t understood, of course, hadn’t had any _idea_ what she meant until she’d told him, haltingly, breathlessly, about the tap at her window… about Archie’s unexpected appearance… about his anger and the crack in her window and the moment when he’d tried to punch his way into the room and had instead fallen to the frozen ground below.

“Dear God,” Jughead had whispered, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Betts… sweetheart… are you okay? Are you safe? What’s happening now?”

“No,” she’d sobbed, the semblance of control she’d regained as she’d told her story deserting her again. “I’m not okay! And I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again. But… he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Jughead had echoed blankly, unsure what she was telling him. “Gone… like… dead?” He wouldn’t have _thought_ a two-storey fall would kill someone, but he’d honestly never considered the matter seriously before.

“No,” Betty had said again, with a slightly hysterical laugh. “’Gone’ as in, ‘Mary managed to coax him into the truck and took him to get checked out at the hospital. ‘ I don’t know how badly he’s hurt, but I doubt it’s serious. He was yelling and swearing down there after he fell, but he seemed more mad than anything. At one point, he was actually trying to break in downstairs.”

“What?” Jughead had whisper-shouted, beyond shocked, but still trying not to wake Bruce and Molly.

“It got really quiet at first when he fell,” Betty had told him, her voice shaking in remembrance. “And then he started to make a whole lot of noise, shouting and howling and banging at the side door. I think he broke some more glass, too – it sounded like it but… I haven’t been downstairs yet to check. Mary called me – told me to keep the doors and windows locked and stay out of sight, maybe lock myself in the bathroom or something, and she’d deal with it. 

“And then… she did. I don’t know _how_ she did it, but she did. It got quiet all of a sudden, and when I peeked out the window, they were walking across the lawn. And then they got in Fred’s car and… they left. She texted me that they were going to the hospital and then… I texted you.”

“Betty,” he’d said, feeling helpless, “I want to help you. Please… tell me how to help you.”

“Like this,” she’d sighed, and this time, her voice had sounded almost calm. “Just like this. Just… talk to me, Juggie. I don’t want to think about it anymore right now and I don’t want to be alone until my parents get home.”

And so he’d talked. He’d talked about Bruce and Molly and their plans for their biological son’s visit home for Christmas. He’d talked about his assignments from South Side High, and his English teacher’s inexplicable choice of _The Fountainhead_ for their first novel study. “Seriously, Betts, could the man choose a less accessible book for this class? Half of them gave up before even figuring out how to pronounce ‘Ayn.’ One asked me why we were reading about a feather bed, which led me to conclude she hadn't even glanced at the cover for more than a split second. And I’m half-hoping they leave it there, because Roark was already an asshole _before_ he raped Dominique, and frankly we have enough assholes already on the south side.” And when he’d run out of views on _that_ subject, he’d persuaded Betty to turn on a truly terrible kung fu movie from the 1970s. They’d both turned the volume all the way down, and he’d kept her giggling as he supplied his own silly dialogue, with occasional contributions from Betty, until her parents came home.

He’d been hoarse from his monologue and beyond ready for sleep by the time they hung up, and had slipped into unconsciousness as soon as he’d been assured Betty was no longer home alone.

He’d awakened late this morning, still raspy-voiced, to find another text on his phone sent around 4:30 a.m., presumably as soon as she’d received an update from Mary.

“Dislocated shoulder. Fractured wrist. Lots of bumps and bruises. Leaving on a later flight. Noon-ish.”

He’d texted back, of course – he was relieved to know Archie was gone, but he was far more interested in knowing how _Betty_ was… whether her parents had taken good care of here… whether she’d slept at all after her nightmarish ordeal – but she’d already been at school by the time he awakened. He’d had one quick note from her at lunchtime – “I’m fine, Jug. Thanks for last night. Layout today. Gotta run!” – and since then, not a word.

All of which brought him here, to this stupid, paved circle in front of a building that had briefly been his home, and now had no place in his life, waiting with his heart in this throat to see the girl he loved.

He could tell the exact moment when she spotted him, and her reaction in that instant repaid in full every bit of effort he’d made to get here and every stab of pain he’d suffered along the way. When she'd first appeared in the doorway, she’d looked exhausted, defeated, and small, with bruised-looking shadows beneath her eyes and a decided droop to her lips. A quick check had assured him that her hands were not clenched into fists, but the way she held them ostentatiously open, her fingers spread and bent back, away from her palms, the palms themselves rubbing restlessly at the sides of her jeans, told him it was a struggle for her.

And then she saw him… recognized him, watching her, waiting for her, and her eyes brightened, her posture straightened, as a wide, disbelieving smile spread across her face and she ran to him, slipping her arms around his neck and sliding her fingers into his hair.

“Juggie?” she breathed uncertainly, as if she weren’t quite convinced of his presence. “What are you doing here?”

“Seeing my best girl, _obviously_ ,” he told her, feeling absurdly delighted by the extent of her surprise, by her very evident pleasure.

“But… how?” she asked, giving him a cautious hug and then pulling him into a less-cautious kiss.

“With my eyes, Betts,” he told her, rolling his own in mock disgust. “Duh.”

She half giggled, half groaned, exactly as he’d hoped she would. “Watch it, Jones,” she told him with a mock severity that was thoroughly adorable. “I might forget myself and sucker punch you.”

“It’s been done,” he deadpanned, beyond pleased to see her smiling more confidently, even as he marvelled at himself. Light-hearted banter had never really been his style; he’d generally preferred sly, sardonic detachment. But there was, quite clearly, nothing he wouldn’t do for Betty Cooper.

“I _meant_ how did you get here?” she said, rolling her eyes at him in turn, but without losing her smile, her air of happy excitement. “Is it even safe for you to be here?” she added, looking suddenly worried. “Should you be… resting or something?”

Jughead shook his head. “I’m actually not supposed to lie around too much,” he answered honestly, focusing on her second question and hoping she’d forget to repeat her first. “If I were still attending Riverdale, I’d probably be back at school right now. I’m supposed to engage in ‘normal activities’ as much as possible. But attending school at South Side High is a little less ‘normal’ and a little more ‘full contact’ so, here I am.”

“But how?” Betty pressed, oblivious to the stares of her schoolmates – his former schoolmates – who were regarding him like some rare exhibit as they streamed down the stairs of the school.

“I got a ride,” he hedged.

“From Bruce and Molly?” she asked, and he sighed inwardly. This would be a much simpler conversation if it weren’t for her inquisitive, journalistic nature… or if he hadn’t promised himself never to lie to her.

“No. They’re both at work,” he admitted ruefully, resigning himself to a bad few minutes. “Bruce will pick me up later, though.”

“So, who _did_ you get a ride with then?” Betty pressed, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously, obviously have picked up on his reticence.

“A friend,” he tried. Betty just waited, her eyebrows raised expectantly. “A friend from the Serpents,” he added reluctantly. “Tall Boy.”

Betty blinked at him just once before narrowing her eyes still further. “And _what_ does Tall Boy drive?” she asked him, her suddenly flawless diction and almost menacing smile reminding him sharply, startlingly, of her mother.

The jig was definitely up.

“A motorcycle,” he admitted.

“A _motorcycle_ , Jug,” Betty repeated in that same, dangerous tone. “Really? And, did your doctor say you could safely ride a motorcycle?”

“She didn’t say I _couldn’t_ ,” Jughead temporized hopefully.

“Of _course_ she didn’t, Jughead,” Betty exploded, “because it undoubtedly never _occurred_ to her that anyone would even _consider_ jumping on a motorcycle with three broken ribs. Honest to God, Jug, you still look like death in a microwave…”

“Well, thanks for _that_ ,” he interrupted her to mutter.

“ _Sexy_ death in a microwave,” Betty amended without breaking her rhetorical stride. “You’re in so much pain, your face is practically grey. You can’t even lift your arms to wash your own hair. You can’t go to school. And yet, you hopped merrily onto a motorcycle piloted by someone named _Tall Boy_?" 

_"I'm_ named 'Jughead,'" he pointed out mildly, but Betty ignored him.

"What were you thinking?” Her voice was rising a bit now, shrill enough to show that her sleepless night was taking its toll on her. But Jughead wasn’t going to fight with her.

Instead, he stepped closer, right into her personal space, and cupped her face between his hands. His ribs twinged, but he didn’t need to raise his arms enough to cause major pain. Gently, he smoothed his thumbs over the bruised-looking shadows under her eyes, holding her gaze and breathing deeply – that _did_ hurt, but he was supposed to do it as much as possible anyway – until Betty began to match his breaths with her own.

“I was _thinking_ ,” he told her softly when he was sure she could hear him, really hear him, though his voice was barely more than a whisper, “that I needed to see you… to be with you.

“You went through something _awful_ last night, Betty, and I just needed – _needed_ – to see that you’re okay. And I was willing to do whatever it took to make that happen, whether it meant getting onto a motorcycle, or breaking the rest of my ribs, or showing up on your doorstep and making hours of small talk with your mother.”

Betty laughed again, softly, sadly.

“I love you, Betty Cooper,” he told her, still gazing deeply into her eyes, “and there is _nothing_ I wouldn’t do to show you that.”

Betty paused a moment, searching his eyes. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her, though; she nodded once, firmly, decisively.

“I love you, Jughead Jones;" she told him, kissing him quickly. “So much so that I’m about to buy you a burger at Pop’s… assuming you can actually walk that far.”

“I dunno,” he said, pretending to consider. “For _that_ kind of walk, I might need a shake, too.”


	69. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has taken a little while. The first half came pretty smoothly and quickly, and then the rest... Well, let's just say it put up a fight. Hoping the next one will be a bit more co-operative. As ever, thank you for the amazing comments and love. Always so appreciated!

### Chapter 69

“It was almost funny,” Betty said, leaning across the table to dunk one of her fries in Jughead’s chocolate shake.

“You’ve got a weird sense of humour, Cooper,” Jughead told her, even as he pulled his shake back and out of her reach. When she leaned even further to catch it, he rose slightly out of his seat to capture her mouth in a kiss.

“I said ‘ _almost_ funny,’ Jug,” Betty said as she sat back down, blushing a little and glancing over her shoulder shyly to see if anyone had noticed their PDA. “There’s still a pretty discernable line between ‘almost’ and ‘actually.’ Obviously, none of this is _actually_ funny; it’s pretty horrible, in fact. But you should have _seen_ my mom. She was just _beside_ herself.”

The walk to Pop’s had taken at least 10 minutes longer than it normally would have. Jughead had been shaken to realize just how easily he fatigued after a week in Bruce’s recliner, and had promised himself to push beyond the boundaries of the living room more often in the weeks ahead.

The burger had been worth it, though, and the company had been worth a lot more. Now, Betty was filling him in on what had happened after they’d hung up the phone last night – early this morning, really – when her parents arrived home to find a crack in her bedroom window and, apparently, a very visible dent in their side door.

“I mean, can you picture it, Jug… the Alice Cooper dilemma?” Betty continued. “On the one hand, she _hates_ Archie… she always has. And this was just the perfect opportunity to throw the book at him… press charges for attempted breaking and entering, and destruction of property, and trespassing, and God knows what else…”

“Criminal harassment,” Jughead muttered, still not seeing the ‘funny’ in any of this.

“And on the _other_ hand,” Betty went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “she hates ‘talk.’ And she knew – she just _knew_ – that calling the police would keep Riverdale’s gossip mill working overtime for months.

“I’m telling you, Jug, this was the hardest decision my mother’s ever had to make. At one point, I actually though she was going to cry with frustration. She wanted _so badly_ to go after Archie with everything she had… and she wanted _so badly_ to avoid a scandal. And in the end, she just couldn’t stomach the risk of the perfect Cooper image being shattered.”

“Did she ask what _you_ wanted?” Jughead asked her seriously.

Betty snorted. “Does she _ever_?” she countered. He had to concede her point, but it made him sad.

“So… what would you have chosen,” he probed, “if she _had_ asked you?”

Betty sighed, her smile fading a little. “Honestly?” she asked, and he nodded. “I probably would have chosen this… exactly this. I mean, I had my phone in my hand while Archie was there at the window.” She shivered, and Jughead caught her hand across the table. “I could have called the police, instead of Mary.”  
“Why didn’t you?” he asked her, and then immediately wished he hadn’t as he saw her shrink in her seat, looking ashamed. “Hey, I’m not criticizing,” he told her quickly, squeezing her hand more firmly. “ _I_ didn’t call the police after… our late unpleasantness.” That drew a smile from Betty, as he’d hoped it would, but it was shaky. “I’m just curious.”

“Calling the police would have kept him around longer,” Betty said flatly, “which I absolutely did _not_ want. I wanted him out of Riverdale, out of my _life_ more than I wanted him to face whatever slap-on-the-wrist consequences the legal system might have doled out.”

“There could have been some pretty serious charges against him,” Jughead felt compelled to point out. “Might not have been a slap on the wrist.”

“But it probably wouldn’t have been banishment either,” Betty countered, “which is all that I really want. Archie in Chicago… or _anywhere_ that’s a solid plane ride away, is a whole lot better than Archie in the county lock-up or anywhere else within our area code.”

“So, how’d Mary explain his injuries at the hospital?” Jughead asked, changing the subject because… really, what else was there to say?

Betty laughed unexpectedly, and he couldn’t help smiling back at her, even without understanding the joke. “She told them, and I quote, that ‘teenaged boys aren’t legendary for their sound judgement and long-range planning,’” Betty told him. “She said no one even questioned beyond that.” 

Now, Jughead was chuckling too, albeit reluctantly. “I’ll bet she put on her scary lawyer demeanour when she said it, too,” he commented. “That’s always very effective at ending a discussion.”

Betty smiled and pushed her plate towards him, offering the remainder of her fries, which he gladly accepted.

“And how are _you_ doing?” he asked when he’d demolished what was left on the plate.

“I’m fine, Jug,’ she told him, just a shade too quickly.

“Don’t lie to me, Betts,” he told her quietly.

“I _am_ fine,” she insisted, then paused. “Right now,” she added. “You’re here, and the sun is shining, and Archie is gone… I’m _fine_.”

“But?” he prompted, and Betty sighed.

“But I’m not looking forward to tonight,” she admitted. “I mean, my nightmares were back already… have been back for weeks. And now? I have real-life memories of last night, plus a cracked window as a tangible reminder of just how vulnerable I really am, even in my own home.”

Jughead rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead in frustration. “I wish I could help,” he told her. “But even if I could sneak out of Bruce and Molly’s place tonight, and somehow make it across town, there’s no way I could climb that ladder. Hell, I couldn’t even wrestle it into place. And somehow, I doubt Hal and Alice are going to grant me access to your bedroom via any more conventional means of entry.”

“That's a pretty safe bet,” Betty agreed, “but I really wish you could. I always sleep better when I’m with you.”

“The trailer, Saturday?” Jughead suggested, brightening a little. “If we meet there in the morning again, you could get a few hours of sleep to catch up…”

“And elbow you in the ribs while your lungs slowly fill with fluid?” she challenged him.

“You’ve never elbowed me in the ribs before,” Jughead pointed out. “I’ll prop up on some extra pillows to keep my lungs clear, and you can sleep on my good side.”

“Aren’t I _always_ on your good side?” Betty teased, and Jughead could tell by the returning sparkle in her eyes that she liked the idea. 

“You _are_ my good side,” he told her, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. “So… is it a date?”

“It’s a date,” she agreed sunnily. “If you play your cards right, maybe I’ll wash your hair for you, too.”

***

“Bruce and Molly want you to come for dinner again Saturday,” Jughead texted her that night before bed.

“Tell them I’ll bring dinner this time,” Betty responded.

“You can’t,” Jughead texted back promptly. “Too busy SLEEPING.”

“Chili and cornbread,” she answered. “Easy and make-ahead.”

This time, there was a pause before Jughead answered.

“Molly says if you let her cook, she’ll let you muck around in the garage after dinner,” he sent at last.

Betty had to laugh. “Deal,” she told him. “Now take your meds. Good night!”

***

Jughead settled back against his stack of pillows – he was going to try sleeping in his bed tonight, mainly to avoid the siren song of late-night movies that always beckoned when he spent the night in the recliner – smiling despite the dull ache in his ribs that never subsided these days… except when a deep breath or an unwary laugh transformed it without warning into a sharp stab of pain. Between Betty and the Fosters, he’d been on the receiving end of more loving concern in the past few months than in the entire 16 years of his previous life combined. It was almost worth being hurt… a Betty-style _almost_ … to experience that kind of care and attention. Yes, his ribs hurt, but they’d heal. His cuts and bruises were already on the mend. And in the meantime… well, for the first time in his life he felt… loved… normal… lucky, even.

The most brave, brilliant and beautiful woman in the world was his girlfriend. He had a stable home with people who looked after him and provided for him. He was his school’s star pupil – admittedly, a dubious distinction, and one he’d probably already earned by the time he’d attended five consecutive days of classes. And, strangest of all, he had friends… was, in fact, _popular_. Much as he had always relished his “outsider” status, had scorned to pander for acceptance and approval, it was unexpectedly gratifying to find himself suddenly accepted, even adored, with no pandering required. FP’s name, and his own Serpents jacket, had served as a shibboleth that had admitted him to the inner sanctum of South Side High, almost before he’d known what was happening.

Ironically, his contretemps with Archie had only served to elevate him further. His sudden absence from school was easily explainable to his teachers, damaging his burgeoning academic reputation not a whit. And yet, among his peers, it appeared to counter the suspicions that had arisen in some quarters as a consequence of his academic performance. What was even more bizarre, though, was his dawning realization that the extent of his injuries had somehow been interpreted as evidence of his own fighting prowess… proof of his savagery. It seemed to be taken for granted that he’d doled out at least as good as he’d got… that his injuries reflected a battle of epic proportions from which he’d inevitably emerged victorious.

As a result, Jughead had been part bemused, part amused, to find himself suddenly possessed of a reputation as one of the South Side Serpents’ most dangerous young members…. And all because he’d had the living shit kicked out of him by a pampered north sider who looked like a one-man pep rally. Not that he’d ever point out this irony to his newfound friends, of course. He’d been on the South Side only a few weeks, but it had been more than enough time to show him very clearly that he was better served to appear as dangerous than as weak. 

And, if he were being honest, the popularity was quite enjoyable in its own right, apart from any concerns about personal security.

At Riverdale High, he’d invariably joined Archie and Betty at lunch time, as he’d done since kindergarten. On days when their extracurricular activities kept them occupied elsewhere, he’d simply found a quiet corner of the cafeteria or the school grounds to lurk in; on good days, people had left him alone there.

At South Side, by contrast, he was eagerly waved over to five or six different tables as soon as he crossed the cafeteria threshold. If he arrived early, whatever table he’d selected filled up as quickly as people spotted him there.

At Riverdale, he’d occasionally heard vague rumours of parties in the offing, but – apart from his disastrous birthday surprise and one or two events Archie had hosted over the years – he’d never actually received a concrete invitation.

But he’d been invited – directly and enthusiastically – to every major social event that had occurred since he’d arrived at South Side High… had even attended a couple, in company with his fellow Serpents, and had been surprised to discover that a party at which one was a welcomed guest, surrounded by friends and would-be friends, was a far more satisfying experience than he’d ever imagined. Not exactly his scene, it was true… but an interesting change nonetheless.

And this past week, since his attendance at school had been medically prohibited, he’d discovered an entirely new and previously unexpected advantage of popularity: it was an effective vaccine against boredom. He’d received daily visits after (and frequently during) school hours from an unexpectedly diverse crowd of friends and well-wishers. Several of his fellow Serpents had been diligent in checking in on him, sharing highly coloured accounts of their exploits, and losing no chance to assure him that they would have gladly avenged him if he hadn’t already given as good as he got, a pronouncement he always agreed to with all due solemnity. 

But the Serpents were by no means alone in their attentions. Several of his classmates had visited him over the course of the past week, dropping off his assignments or seeking his assistance with their own, sharing horror stories of the cafeteria lunches he’d missed or ribbing him companionably about his terrifying appearance, and generally giving him a comfortable sense of being missed. It also hadn’t escaped his notice that several of his visitors had been of the female persuasion, or that at least three of them were unmistakably flirtatious in their treatment of him. He didn’t specifically recall their flirting with him at school, and wasn’t sure what was prompting it now… but he wasn’t exactly complaining. His heart, of course, belonged irrevocably to Betty. But his days were long just now, and his nights were even longer, and a little light flirtation with attractive young women was a significantly better distraction than watching another hour of television that was brought to him by the letter “N.” Such attention was unprecedented in his experience, and he’d have been lying if he pretended he didn’t find it an enjoyable ego boost.

Combined with the increased frequency of Betty’s calls and visits – a product both of her concern, and of her mother’s long-standing and unexplained loathing of Archie, which now put her so solidly on Jughead's side that it overcame even her distaste for Riverdale’s South Side and her aversion to Betty’s spending any time there – Jughead’s life just now was about as good as it had ever been… assuming his father’s ongoing incarceration could be overlooked.

A knock at his bedroom door broke his train of thought.

“C’min,” he called, and Molly’s head appeared, peeking around the door she’d only partially opened.

“Deep breaths time,” she told him, and he made a grumpy face at her. “ _Now_ ,” she added more firmly.

Bracing himself, Jughead obediently drew three deep, agonizing breaths, drawing the air as deeply into his lungs as he possibly could, in defiance of the needle-bright stabs of pain the action caused.

“Good man,” Molly nodded approvingly, coming all the way into the room… and handing him a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies.

“I didn’t smell these baking,” he said, taken aback. “I must be slipping.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Molly shrugged, bending to kiss his forehead as if it were the most natural thing in the world, before relinquishing her grip on the plate, “so I made them while you were up north.”

_“Up north_?” Jughead repeatedly incredulously. “Moll… I didn’t go on a polar expedition. I just went across town for a couple of hours.”

“Do you want the cookies or not?” she asked chidingly, pretending to make a grab for the plate.

“I do! I do!” he assured her, and grinned as she backed off. “Thank you, county-appointed Mom,” he added with exaggerated sweetness, and she laughed reluctantly and rolled her eyes at him.

“You got a mouth on you, Jughead Jones,” she told him with mock severity. “Better put it to work on those cookies.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he told her contritely. “And Molly?” he added as she headed towards the door.

“Yeah?” she answered, glancing back with her hand still on the door knob.”

“Thanks,” he told her sincerely.

“Anytime,” she said comfortably, and blew him another kiss before closing the door behind her.

Jughead was just reaching for a cookie when his phone dinged with a text from Betty.

“Good night, Juggie,” it said simply.

Jughead bit into a cookie and smiled again. Broken ribs nothwithstanding, it really, really was.


	70. Chapter 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still lagging in answering comments individually, still taking longer than I'd like to post updates, and still utterly overwhelmed by the amount of support this story (and I) have received from all of you! "Thank you" just isn't a big enough phrase.
> 
> Also, I just want to take a moment to highlight that one of Betty's gifts to Jughead in this chapter is my mini-homage to "Keep You Like an Oath" by the amazing singsongsung (which you've all read, right? If not, go... go now! I'll wait...) In a truly heartbreaking chapter in that already-pretty-heartbreaking fic, Betty has a copy of Stephen King's _On Writing_ hidden away for Jughead's Christmas present, and it immediately struck me as a _perfect_ gift for Jughead. So he's getting it again in this fic! 
> 
> I can't say thank you enough to all of you who are still reading, still commenting, and still sending the love now that we're 70 chapters in!

### Chapter 70

Riverdale gossip fully lived up to Alice’s expectations for a few days. No one knew what had happened that night at the Coopers’ house… or outside the hospital a week earlier, for that matter. But several Riverdale citizens had seen Archie leaving the hospital Wednesday morning with his wrist in a cast, his arm in a sling, and the fading, yellow remnants of a week-old black eye. And, of course, the abrupt withdrawal from Riverdale High of a star football player, musician, and all-around favoured son of the town could hardly fail to occasion comment. Speculation was rife as to causes and consequences, but Betty steadfastly disclaimed all knowledge, while Veronica froze all questions with such an icy stare that even the nosiest neighbours quickly stopped asking her.

But after a surprisingly short time, the town seemed to find new grist for its rumour mill, and life resumed some semblance of normalcy.

Some of the routines, of course, were new. Saturday night dinners at the Fosters were now an established ritual, for one thing. And Jughead picking Betty up in FP’s truck was another dimension of the new normal. Bruce had taken advantage of Jughead’s enforced hiatus from school to teach him to drive, first securing his learner’s permit and then practicing anytime Bruce’s shifts at work permitted it, with the end result that, by the time Jughead returned to South Side High, he was a licensed driver with unfettered access to FP’s truck. Betty and Jughead took full advantage of that license for another new ritual… their visits, every second Sunday afternoon, to FP at the minimum security prison outside town where he’d been held since his long-delayed arraignment.

Betty still wasn’t sure exactly what Mary had done to bring _that_ about. She hadn’t even known before Mary’s departure that she’d been working on FP’s case. And FP had flatly refused to discuss the issue beyond saying that Mary “always was a class act.”

Whatever the secret, though, FP’s arraignment had occurred within days of Mary’s departure, and many of the more serious charges with which Sheriff Keller had threatened him – accessory to murder, for one – had not even been mentioned. He was still being charged with evidence tampering, along with obstruction in the second degree which was, according to Jughead “less than ideal” and, according to FP, “a hell of a lot better than I had any right to expect.” Betty suspected they were both right. Compared to what they’d been expecting, though, the possible sentences associated with FP’s actual charges were relatively light… and his trial was set for early spring. After weeks of limbo, these signs of progress… of forward momentum, even though the end remained uncertain, were deeply reassuring.

Other routines were more familiar… daily walks to school and diligent study to maintain Betty’s unblemished, lifetime record of straight A’s… lunches in the Riverdale High cafeteria, and gruelling River Vixens rehearsals under Cheryl Blossom’s scorched-earth tutelage… _Blue and Gold_ layouts and milkshakes at Pop’s and family dinners at which she and Polly rolled their eyes at one another in silent solidarity against their mother’s more extravagant moments of self-righteous indignation…

But beneath that veneer of sameness, even the familiar routines had fundamentally changed. With Archie gone and Jughead on the south side, Betty’s daily walks to school and nightly study sessions were generally solitary, and there were empty seats at the cafeteria table she shared daily with Veronica and Kevin that were mirrored in their strangely empty booth at Pop’s. Betty stoically endured Cheryl’s petty cruelties and faithfully churned out editions of the _Blue and Gold_ , pretending to herself that it hadn’t become a chore since she’d been doing it alone, trying not to notice that the content tasted a little flat now that Jughead was no longer providing his sardonic voice and tongue-in-cheek conspiracy theories as leaven to the more conventional school newspaper fare. She celebrated that Polly was home again, and tried to hide from herself the knowledge that, as her pregnancy advanced, her sister seemed more and more to be changing into someone Betty didn’t even know… a terrifying hybrid of their mother and Penelope Blossom.

Even the face of the town itself felt unfamiliar. The Lodges didn’t seem to have any immediate plans for Andrews Construction, and the boarded-up windows of the trailer Fred had used as his office seemed to Betty like a visible sign of a slow creep of abandonment, spreading from the vacant lot that had once housed the Twilight Drive-In towards the heart of the town… a perfect metaphor for the chill of change that seemed to be stealing into every aspect of her life. Even Fred’s recovery, which had accelerated dramatically in the past few weeks, was a harbinger of still more change. He expected to be released from hospital shortly after Christmas, and would be in Florida by mid-January.

But neither tragedy nor trauma, neither continuity nor change, could hold back time, and now Christmas was just around the corner.

How to spend Christmas Day had spiralled into a multilateral negotiation of dizzying complexity.

Betty wanted to spend the day with Jughead, but also to spend time with her family, and hoped to visit FP as well. Jughead agreed wholeheartedly, both with time together and with a visit to his father, but also wanted to find a balance between having a family Christmas with the Fosters, and giving them time alone with their biological son, who would be home for a brief visit. Polly wanted the whole family – and _only_ the family, she’d added pointedly more than once – at home for the entire day… but simultaneously insisted on spending time with Penelope and Cheryl Blossom (“the babies’ family,” as Polly called them), whom Alice flatly refused to have in her house.

Predictably, the result of these multitudinous and irreconcilable expectations had been a drama-fueled series of proposals and counter-proposals, a high-stakes group chat, and a half-joking and fully earnest suggestion from Jughead one evening when they were snuggled in bed at the trailer (while their respective families fondly believed them to be at a double-feature at the Bijou) that they just bury their phones in the backyard and take refuge at the Whyte Wyrm until the new year.

“They’re doing turkey burgers with cranberry ketchup for Christmas dinner,” he’d told her enticingly, and then laughed when she lifted her head from his chest to stare at him in horrified consternation.

“Dear God, Jughead, that sounds vile!” she’d told him honestly, and then they were both laughing and she’d collapsed against him again.

“Allow me to elaborate,” he’d said when he could again command his voice. “They’re serving turkey burgers and cranberry ketchup and your mother won’t be there… nor will the Blossoms… nor will anyone whose pregnancy hormones are leading them to interpret scheduling conflicts as deep personal affronts towards her unborn, fatherless children. We can take a table and be consistently and comprehensively ignored for _hours_.”

Betty had pretended to wipe tears from her eyes. “It’s a Christmas miracle,” she’d told him before dissolving into giggles again.

In the end, though, Betty had set out a timetable – an actual, physical timetable in an Excel spreadsheet, colour-coded with estimated travel times included – that met with everyone’s approval. Everyone would have breakfast and open presents in their own homes, with their own families (whether biological or foster). Then, her father would drop off Polly at the Blossoms and Betty at the Fosters for brunch and a visit. In the early afternoon, Jughead and Betty would take the truck to visit FP, and would return for Christmas dinner at the Coopers by 7:00, by which time Polly would have returned as well.

Of course, the itinerary was only one of the battles to be fought over Christmas. Betty had endeavoured to persuade Jughead that she didn’t need a gift. She knew his funds were tight; he hadn’t had a job since the drive-in shut down, and while the Fosters kept him fed, clothed and housed, she knew he’d refused to take any form of allowance from them.

Jughead, however, was having none of her plan. “Of course I’m getting you a gift, Betts,” he’d said flatly.

“But it’s honestly not important to me,” she’d argued… and meant it. A lifetime of her mother’s immaculately wrapped and expensive gifts – every one of which carried some veiled criticism of one of Betty’s inadequacies (‘This will look so nice on you once you lose a few pounds,’ or ‘I thought this would help you to organize your time better’) or else became leverage for some deep game of emotional manipulation to force compliance – she’d have been quite content never to receive a Christmas gift again.

“It’s important to _me_ ,” Jughead insisted quietly, and she’d let it go. She’d been more successful, though, in appealing to his anti-establishment leanings and proposing they bypass the crass materialism of the mall.

All of which led them, on this snowy Saturday morning, back to the Catholic church where Jughead had bought her the green sweater dress she still wore to most Saturday night dinners at the Fosters. Another jumble sale had been advertised, and she and Jughead had armed themselves with reusable shopping bags and a $10 limit for their morning’s foraging.

Betty had tried to argue for a $5 limit instead, but Jughead had overruled her.

“With me, it’s first class all the way, baby,” he’d told her, waggling his eyebrows comically.

Jughead had picked her up in the truck; she had to admit that his newfound mobility was convenient. _And_ she was thankful she’d taken the time earlier in the fall to get the old pickup in impeccable working order. She’d pulled FP’s snow tires out from under his bed at the trailer last weekend and put them on the truck, and now felt confident that they could contend with whatever the weather had in store for them, both today and on the 40-mile trek to FP’s minimum security prison on Christmas Day.

Jughead parked in the church parking lot, and Betty smiled. He was still a little heavy on the clutch, but his driving skills were visibly improving by leaps and bounds. Her smile broadened as he leaned over, effectively forestalling her attempt to unfasten her seatbelt, and kissed her lingeringly.

“Ready for some retail therapy?” he asked, pulling back just far enough for her to see his grin.

Stifling her own grin, she tried to look at him sternly instead. “Veronica would _not_ agree that this qualifies,” she told him. “But yes,” she added as the smile finally broke through. “I'm ready.”

It was true. Her heart was already thumping in happy anticipation of the morning. She’d had such fun here with Jughead the last time they’d come, and while the nature of this morning’s errand would preclude their shopping together as they had on that occasion, she remembered the warmth and the happy mess fondly and couldn’t wait to delve back in and begin hunting for hidden treasures. She also took a deep, only half-conscious satisfaction in the certain knowledge that her mother would have fits if she were privileged to know where Betty was spending her morning.

As they entered the church hall, she and Jughead exchanged another quick kiss and drifted off in separate directions, each with a bag clutched in one fist.

It was early still, and shoppers appeared to be outnumbered by volunteers. A low murmur of conversation served almost as a soundtrack, and Betty quickly lost herself in the pleasure of wandering aimlessly through the aptly named “jumble,” exploring with no clear agenda in mind, and pausing frequently to chat with the volunteers running the sale, most of them comfortable-looking older women who called her “dear” and offered their assistance, despite the fact that she had no clear idea what she was looking for, and they had no clear idea what was available anyway.

It was funny, actually. She’d always loathed Christmas shopping, wracked with anxiety as she attempted to discern the “right” gift for everyone on her list, researching options and making exhaustive lists and revisions, calculating wait times at check-outs for each store on her list and trying to file gift receipts with pre-written gift tags for each recipient as she shopped, only to return home and begin the laborious process of trying to wrap each gift as professionally as the high-end boutiques in New York would have done. It was a routine she’d repeated year after year since she’d received her first allowance… one she’d already repeated this year for every other name on her list… one that set her teeth on edge and drew drops of blood from her palms beneath the frantic pressure of her own fingernails, trying to resist the urge to just shriek with rage until the crowds melted away or to hold back the gnawing fear that she’d make a mistake, give the wrong gift, and shatter the love that always felt so conditional and yet so essential to her.

But here… in this humble, glorious muddle of everything and nothing, there was absolutely no way to anticipate what might be available, and thus there was no point in planning or researching or weighing options and preferences… no point in turning herself inside out, trying to imagine what kind of gift one was supposed to give a ‘boyfriend’ at Christmas. This crumbling old hall in a dingy old church on the edge of the wrong side of town had what it had, and that unpredictability was a gift in itself. No list, no agenda, Betty simply wandered through the cluttered space, touching and observing until something struck a chord with her. The riot of colours and textures, the friendly welcome of the volunteers, both soothed and disarmed her, and she found herself enjoying the experience of simply following her fancy to items that spoke to her, that seemed already to belong to Jughead.

A pristine, paperback copy of Toni Morrison’s _Beloved_ , her favourite book, and one she knew Jughead had never read.

A more battered copy of Stephen King’s _On Writing_ , which he’d read (twice), but never owned.

A heavy, pottery mug with a three dimensional moose’s head protruding from one side, its hindquarters forming the handle on the other.

A luxuriously soft cashmere sweater that looked at though it had barely been worn, in a slate blue colour that she knew would match Jughead’s eyes and a relaxed, casual style that she hoped would fit his taste.

And her grand total came to $9.87. 

Betty tucked her purchases into her bag ( _Ceci n’est pas un sac_ , the slogan on the side proclaimed) along with her handwritten sales slip and turned to wander through the crowded hall again, this time for the sheer pleasure of it, content to browse until she and Jughead found each other.

A table of books she’d missed earlier drew her attention, and she sifted idly through them, quickly ascertaining that she’d already purchased the only titles of interest to her. This table skewed heavily towards pioneer-themed “inspirational romances,” a literary genre she’d previously been blissfully unaware of.

Another table was filled with baby clothes, ruffly things and fuzzy things and colourful things, all of them sinfully soft and impossibly tiny. Betty lingered a moment here, smiling wistfully as she fingered a pale grey sleeper with a seal’s face embroidered on the tummy. It was adorable… but she knew neither Alice nor Polly would ever permit the twins-to-be to wear a garment that came from a jumble sale. Reluctantly, she set it down again. Better some other prospective aunt or mother find it, better that it actually warm a tiny child in the winter months that were just beginning to unfold, than to have it languish, unused, in a drawer because of Cooper pride or Blossom snobbery.

Betty continued her leisurely, directionless progress through the room, thoroughly enjoying the unstructured and unhurried time. As she rounded a rack of winter coats in various stages of disrepair, she was so lost in thought that it took her a moment to recognize Jughead standing at the end of the aisle formed by this rack of clothing and the back corner of the hall.

When she did recognize him, she smiled automatically, taking a quick step forward to be introduced to the girl he was talking to, only to falter and come to a halt, her smile fading as she realized that Jughead, though smiling, was looking distinctly uncomfortable and that the unknown girl was standing several shades too close for casual conversation.

Jughead clearly hadn’t noticed Betty’s arrival yet, his attention seeming divided between maintaining his frozen smile and attempting to take a step back, an effort in which he was substantially impeded by the overloaded clothing rack on one side, and the solid wall on the other. Short of knocking the girl down and stepping over her, towards Betty, he had severely limited room for movement.

“… picking out a few Christmas gifts for my girlfriend,” he was saying, and Betty wondered whether it was her imagination that made her think he’d stressed those last two words.

“Sounds like you could use some help,” the unknown girl purred, laying a hand on Jughead’s arm as Betty’s eyebrows rose in disbelief at the blatant disregard for his verbal and physical cues. “Girlfriends are notoriously hard to please, and _notoriously_ unforgiving if you mess up.”

Jughead laughed out loud at that, his discomfort evaporating for a moment. “You’ve clearly never met _my_ girlfriend,” he said, and Betty’s heart warmed at his tone. At that moment, he glanced up and caught sight of her, and his face broke into a huge, natural smile. “But you’re about to,” he added. “Done already?” he asked Betty, shifting his gaze to her, and she nodded. “Betty, come meet Gina, from my new school.”

Betty’s answering smile was replaced by an open-mouthed stare as Gina turned to face her. It wasn’t the girl’s narrowed eyes that startled her, or even her strikingly lovely face, highlighted by bold, dramatic makeup. It was just… _her_. Faced with Gina, Betty felt instantly frumpy, childish and forgettable, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. Their outfits weren’t that dissimilar… winter jackets open over sweaters and skinny jeans tucked into boots. True, Gina’s hair was a sharp, angular bob of glossy brown in contrast to her own, insipid blonde ponytail. Gina’s jeans were black and ripped, rather than faded blue and intact, and her black motorcycle boots were appreciably different from Betty’s rugged brown hiking boots. But the difference went deeper than that. Gina looked sleek, dangerous, and impossibly cool. By contrast, Betty felt as though she’d just stepped off a page from the J.C. Penney fall catalogue… a page found in the section for girls, aged 7-14.

She recovered quickly, though, shaking off her mood and stepping forward, extending a hand to shake. She was _not_ going to act weird with one of Jughead’s friends because of her own insecurities. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, hoping her pause hadn’t been too remarkable.

Gina flicked a glance towards Betty’s outstretched hand, but made no move to take it. “Yeah. Charmed,” she said sarcastically, and Betty felt her cheeks flame with humiliation.

Jughead was frowning now, too. “You trying to be rude, Gina?” he asked mildly. “Or do you just not know any better?”

Gina’s eyes glittered angrily. “Oh, a _thousand_ pardons,” she said dryly. “I _do_ hope I don’t offend.”

“Well, you don’t _amuse_ , if that’s any comfort,” he answered sharply.

“Nice to see you, Jughead,” she spat, turning on her heel to go. “It’s been real, princess,” she added without glancing back.

***

“So… _that_ was awkward,” Betty said, glancing at Jughead from the corner of her eye as he drove towards Sunnyside Trailer Park.

After their encounter with Gina, he’d told Betty he needed a few minutes to finish up and pay for his purchases, so she’d taken his keys and warmed up the truck while she waited. When he’d joined her, he’d seemed subdued, uncomfortable, and his mood hadn’t lightened appreciably in the ensuing minutes.

At her words, Jughead huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yes,” he confirmed fervently. “That it was.”

“Why is that, do you think?” she asked when he didn’t continue.

“ _Why_?” Jughead echoed, glancing at her warily out of the corner of his own eye.

“Why was it awkward?” Betty pressed. “Sure, I don’t know Gina, but I’m reasonably good at meeting people. Coopers are, after all, all about first impressions.” For a moment, she heard a note of bitterness in her own voice. Her parents and their ridiculous obsession with appearances were not the issue at hand, however, and she refused to be distracted. “So why should meeting one of your new friends have been awkward?”

Jughead sighed heavily and took his left hand off the wheel, scrubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead just above his left eye.

“That’s probably my fault,” he said gruffly, reluctantly.

“But _why_?” Betty asked again.

“Uhhh… because it seems I'm fairly stupid,” he told her. Betty drew a breath to probe further, but he hastened to forestall her. “Betts, can we talk about this when we get home?” he pleaded, not even noticing that he’d referred to the trailer as home. “We’ll have this conversation… the sooner the better, actually. But in light of recent evidence, I’m not convinced I have the cognitive capacity to sustain a discussion and simultaneously drive this truck without putting us in a ditch somewhere.”

“Fair enough,” Betty told him. She wasn’t sure what was happening here, but another 10 minutes of curiosity wouldn’t kill her. Making up her mind to wait until they were ‘home,’ she switched on the radio and settled back in her seat.


	71. Chapter 71

### Chapter 71

“So… exactly how stupid are you?” Betty challenged Jughead when they were seated on the couch in the trailer’s living room. They had separated briefly upon arrival to hide their respective gifts until time could be found to wrap them, and Betty had grabbed a couple of pizzas from the freezer and thrown them in the oven for lunch. It wasn’t gourmet… but it was fast and non-perishable.

“’Exactly?’” Jughead quirked an eyebrow at her. “Well, it’s not like I’ve been professionally evaluated or anything. But, going on the balance of evidence, I’d say it’s a safe bet that I’m skewing closer to the Wile E. Coyote than the Stephen Hawking end of the spectrum.”

Betty just waited. It was obvious that something was worrying Jughead, and that he was, characteristically, using ironic detachment as a defence. But he’d already agreed they needed to have a conversation. She could afford to wait while he figured out how to say whatever it was he needed to say.

Jughead sighed and scrubbed at his eyebrow with the heel of his hand again. Then, he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. What began to rattle Betty’s calm, though, was the observation that he was keeping his gaze focused on the chipped formica of the coffee table, apparently unable to meet her eyes.

“After… the fight,” he began haltingly, and Betty nodded encouragement even though he couldn’t see her, “when I couldn’t go to school… I had a lot of time on my hands.” Betty nodded again, stupidly, but Jughead’s focus on the coffee table never wavered. “Those first few weeks…” he trailed off for a moment, now staring across the room at something Betty couldn’t see. After a pause, though, he seemed to shake himself a little, and he continued. “I was hurting pretty badly,” he concluded.

“I remember,” Betty whispered, and Jughead glanced at her quickly in acknowledgement before shifting his gaze back to a spot across the room.

“I couldn’t write,” he continued after a pause. “Most of the time, I couldn’t even _read_. It was like all I was doing was just… surviving… just enduring… like I didn’t have the brain power to focus on much of _anything_ beyond getting through the next minute… the next _second_ sometimes.

“I watched TV until I swear I could feel brain cells dying,” he told her. “Soap operas… cartoons… anything that came on. But the only thing that really distracted me was visitors.”

Betty felt a sharp stab of guilt at that. She’d visited, of course… nearly every day. But she’d been so busy… so hurried… the visits never lasted long. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered brokenly. “ _So_ sorry I wasn’t here more…”

“Stop,” Jughead interrupted, quietly but firmly, and didn’t it just figure that _now_ he was looking at her… now when she wanted desperately to curl into her guilt and her shame alone. But Jughead’s eyes were meeting hers, almost fierce in their intensity. “You were _amazing_ ,” he enunciated as if willing her to believe him. “You had school and River Vixens practices and the _Blue and Gold_ and God knows what else, and you were still here, day after day. You made tea and you washed my hair and the only, _only_ things that felt good in those God-awful weeks were things that you did for me. And when you weren’t here? You texted me and you talked to me and you planned things to do the next time we were together. You took care of me. I can’t even fathom how you found time for _half_ of what you did, so don’t you _dare_ start feeling badly.

“But I was hurting, and I was angry, and I was _bored_ … so very, very, bored…

“And so I loved visitors… _all_ the visitors.”

“And Gina was one of them?” Betty guessed, her heart in her throat now as she remembered the actual subject of their conversation, as she began to fear what Jughead might be about to tell her.

“Gina was one of them,” he confirmed, and Betty could feel a familiar sense of unreality descending on her, could hear a ringing in her ears as she fought to stay in her body, to hear what Jughead was saying.

“Do you love her?” she asked, a bit too loudly because she was trying to hear her own voice over the hammering of her heart and the buzzing in her ears.

“ _What_?” Jughead interrupted himself in whatever he’d been saying to ask her incredulously. “No,” he said, and then “ _NO!_ ” again, more forcefully. “God, I don’t think I ever had a conversation alone with her before today!”

Betty stared at him, open-mouthed, her haziness dissipating with the force of her surprise. “Then… what are we talking about here?” she asked him numbly.

“Dammit, Betty!” Jughead seemed almost angry. “I _flirted_ with her, is what I was going to say… with her and her friends, Toni and Maria, when the three of them came to visit a few times. I didn’t even think that much of it at the time. It felt harmless… meaningless… just some banter that filled the time and distracted me from the pain. It didn’t mean anything. It was just… entertainment… like _Dr. Phil_ and _Y &R_ and _Sesame Street_ and whatever else flitted across the screen. It was superficial and it was flattering and it just felt like… yeah, entertainment. Nothing real.

“Until I saw Gina today and she started talking to me exactly the same way she did on those visits. Only this time, we were alone, and it all felt _very_ real all of a sudden. And it occurred to me, all at once… _I_ did this. _My_ behaviour had led her to think that I was okay with her interacting with me in that way… that I _liked_ it.

“And it got awkward fast, because without Toni and Maria there… when it started to feel real… I _hated_ it, and I was ashamed of it… ashamed of myself. I knew I hadn’t been fair to you, or even fair to her, when I created that situation and participated in it and…”

“Wait,” Betty cut off his spiralling self-recriminations. “You _flirted_ with her?” Jughead nodded miserably. “In company with two of her friends, who you were also and equally flirting with?” He nodded again. “But nothing physical happened, and you weren’t, like, baring your souls in private conversations or late-night texts?” Jughead shook his head, looking slightly nauseated at the suggestion. “Hunh…”

Betty was thinking fast. On the one hand, Jughead flirting with other girls was definitely _not_ okay with her. The very idea made the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end, like the sudden approach of an electrical storm, and roused a jealousy she didn’t want to acknowledge as real.

On the other hand, what he’d just confessed to – and seemed genuinely to feel contrite for – was miles less than what she’d been imagining when she’d seen his seriousness. And Betty had been Alice Cooper’s daughter – scrambling constantly for accomplishments that would earn the acclaim and approval that were the gateways to her mother's affection – for far too long to be blind to the seductive lure of flattery and external approval. And she’d seen first-hand just how hurt Jughead had been... not just physically hurt, but heart sore from the betrayal and abandonment by his oldest friend.

“Say something,” Jughead pleaded, and Betty belatedly realized that she’d been silent for several long minutes as her thoughts and feelings, feminist theories and relationship ethics chased each other through her mind.

“What do you want me to say, Jug?” she asked him, not angrily, but directly. “Do you want me to say I’m mad at you? Because I am, and I _can_. I spent a lot of time during those weeks thinking of you and worrying about you. And now, I find out that, at least some of the time I was worrying about you, _you_ were flirting with someone else,” Jughead winced, but Betty ignored it. “Which sucks, by the way,” she added. “And it hurts. And yeah, I’m mad about it.

“Or do you want me to say I’m mad at myself? Because that’s true, too. I’m actually _jealous_ of those girls… so jealous, I’ve got words like ‘bitch’ and ‘skank’ running through my mind, which is seriously _not_ okay with me. And I’m imagining them all looking as cool and as sexy as Gina, and I feel plain and vanilla in comparison, and _that’s_ not okay with me either. I’m mad at myself for making comparisons or even imagining myself being in competition with anyone, because I honestly believe no one wins at that game, and I do _not_ want to be that girl.

“And then there’s this whole other side of me. Because I’m also a River Vixen, Jughead, and sometimes when our team and the football team are together at practices or events, the atmosphere gets pretty… flirty. So I understand how flirting in a group setting can feel sort of generalized and impersonal. And while I don’t _think_ I participate in the flirting… I also don’t go home, or lock myself in a cone of silence to distance myself from it. If I laugh at a joke when the football team and the cheerleaders are flirting, am _I_ flirting too? What if I scold Reggie for being a pig, but it’s while everyone is laughing and posing and playing that whole game? Is _that_ flirting? And if it is, then am I a hypocrite for being so mad at you?

“So I’m also conflicted.

“And, cards on the table, I’m relieved that it isn’t something bigger or darker, because you scared the _crap_ out of me when you started talking about how bored and lonely you were. And that relief also terrifies me. It makes me scared I’m being a pushover, letting you off the hook too easily… that maybe I’m minimizing something I’ll later look back and see as a warning sign.

“So what are you looking for here, Jug? What is it that you want me to say?” Betty demanded as she finally fell silent.

“That,” Jughead answered simply, looking more than a little shell-shocked by her barrage of words… but also looking directly into her eyes, which was a major improvement. “I want you to say all of that… and anything else you need to, as many times as you need to.

“I screwed up, Betty, and I hurt you and I’m sorry. I was stupid, and I was selfish, and I was thoughtless, and I can only promise it will never happen again… the flirting part, at least,” he added with dark humour.

Betty sighed. “What if I say I forgive you, and I believe you when you say you won’t do it again, but I’m still mad at you? Does that make me a bad person?”

Jughead half-laughed. “I think it makes you a _human_ person,” he countered. “And as for… all the rest of it… all the other things you’re feeling, besides mad at me… I wish I knew how to help. But anything I say about your feeling inadequate or comparing yourself… it’s just going to fall into the trap of making comparisons, isn’t it? If I tell you you’re more beautiful than Gina and Toni and Maria and the rest of the south side combined… it's still rating you against each other, treating it like some competition where I get to judge because I have the penis. Which is pretty gross, not to mention being a game nobody wins. And so it leaves me with just… how terrible I feel that I put you in that position in the first place.

“I love you, Betty. Not because you’re smarter or more beautiful or sexier or kinder than anyone I’ve ever known, but just because… you’re Betty.”

Betty squeezed Jughead’s hand where it lay on the couch between them, but didn’t answer, and a silence fell between them.

After a few moments, Jughead broke it tentatively.

“Do you… want me to take you home?” he asked.

Betty was startled to see he was serious.

“No, Juggie,” she said, turning to take his face between her hands. “Of course not! If I went home every time I felt inadequate… well, I wouldn’t get out much. And I’m low-grade, residual mad, not scorched earth mad!”

“Well, that's a relief,” he told her, and Betty smiled.

“Of course, I may still feel a need to exact vengeance in petty and unpredictable ways,” Betty added warningly and felt a sparkling warmth creep back into her body as Jughead recognized and responded to her teasing. (Well, she was _mostly_ teasing.)

“Both necessary and appropriate,” he agreed with exaggerated solemnity.

“ _And_ I get to add olives to one of the pizzas,” Betty added as the timer reminded her of their lunch. 

Jughead gave an exaggerated shudder. “Cruel and unusual punishment, Cooper. You are savage.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she agreed as she began to get to her feet. At the last second, though, Jughead grabbed her hand and pulled her back down next to him on the couch, kissing her briefly, but deeply.

“We can come back to this,” he told her with sudden seriousness, holding her gaze with intention, “as many times as you need to, until you’ve said all that you need to say as often as you need to say it… and until you know, absolutely, that there’s never any question of comparison. The only one who matters is you.”


	72. Chapter 72

### Chapter 72

Payback could be a bitch. Jughead knew that… felt like he’d always known it, in fact, after growing up in a home where the air perennially crackled with the tension of FP and Gladys Jones’ never-ending war of escalating, petty vengeance.

But as hot water poured over him, as it beaded on Betty’s eyelashes and ran in rivulets over her flawless breasts, he realized for the first time that it didn’t always have to be.

On occasion, it was now manifestly clear, payback could be absolutely _glorious_.

It had started as the merest nugget of a fantasy when he’d found himself waiting alone in the living room for Betty to finish her gift wrapping… a task that apparently took quite a bit longer than washing and putting away two plates and two cups, and putting on a pot of coffee for later. When he’d finished in the kitchen, he’d sprawled negligently on the couch – more to enjoy the still-novel sensation of breathing freely and painlessly while lying down than out of any real fatigue – and allowed his mind to wander. It wandered quite happily (one might almost say _purposefully_ ) back to the ways Betty had cared for him in the first weeks after his injury… to the way she’d washed his hair when he couldn’t lift his arms high enough to do it for himself… to the way his scalp had tingled as she massaged soap through his hair, the way the slight bite of her nails had sent shivers down his neck, all the way to the base of his spine.

He’d been aghast… gutted, really, at Betty’s words about him flirting with other girls while she worried about him at home. He hated that image, that juxtaposition… hated it all the more because it was so accurate.

And it had gradually dawned on him as he lay there, half hard from his recollections of Betty’s fingers twined through his soapy hair, scratching gently at the base of his neck, brushing lightly against his ears, that as much as he’d been hurting _then_ , Betty was hurting _now_. Her pain was less physical than his, to be sure, but it was no less real for that. If anything, it cut deeper, more sharply, because of the way it nudged at the insecurities he too easily forgot had plagued her all her life.

And from that thought, his plan had taken shape.

Calling it ‘a plan’ was, of course, misleadingly grandiose. It really was little more than a fantasy -- washing Betty’s hair for her, as she’d done for him several times in the early weeks of his injury (chastely at the kitchen sink when the Fosters were home; equally chastely, but naked, in the shower when they were at work) – with the added ingredient of intention. It started with just a whisper of a thought… just the image of Betty’s golden waves darkened with water as he worked her fragrant shampoo through the heavy silk of her hair. It grew as a fantasy… the imagined heat of the water, the steam that would rise in the tiny bathroom, the way Betty’s scent would fill his nostrils… seep into his pores… inhabit him. And then, with one quick shift in intention – “I’m gonna see if she’s into it” – his plan had been fully fledged.

Which, conveniently, left him with several free moments to return to the realm of fantasy, projecting himself into that steamy, little shower cubicle, imagining how the tension would melt from Betty’s posture as he kneaded her shoulders, lathered her hair, anticipated and tended to her every need.

By the time Betty returned to the room, he didn’t just have a plan; he was deeply committed to its fulfillment… provided, of course, that Betty was equally enthusiastic. Given the level of her (justified) anger with him right now, there was a solid possibility that she’d tell him to go straight to hell when he broached the subject. But he’d never know if he didn’t ask.

“All done,” Betty told him as she came in, and he tipped his head back to see her. “Do I smell coffee?”

“You do,” he confirmed, sitting up as he spoke, “but I’m hoping you can wait a bit for a cup.”

“I probably _can_ ,” Betty said, “but I’m not one hundred per cent clear on why I _would_.”

“Because you have more important things to do,” Jughead told her solemnly.

“I do?” Betty’s tone was skeptical. “More important than _coffee_?”

“Well… more important than _mediocre_ coffee anyway,” Jughead told her with a wry grin, “which is all I can really make you with FP’s coffee maker. I’m calculating its importance with a built-in adjustment for mediocrity.”

“Solid reasoning,” Betty told him dryly as she dropped down on the couch beside him and gratified him endlessly by wrapping his arm around her before snuggling into his side. “After all, nothing improves mediocre coffee as much as the act of _waiting_ for it on unspecified grounds.”

“Coffee grounds?” Jughead snickered a little, as he knew she’d hoped he would. But he was more focused on the feeling of her beside him than on her words. On the one hand, he was grateful… humbled, even… that she was cuddling into him at all. On the other, he was very aware that the usual perfection of her fit against him, the way her body would melt seamlessly into his, was absent.

It wasn’t a question of physical distance. It was more a stiffness, a certain rigidity in her muscles, that silently spoke the hurt and the anger Betty had admitted to, but seemed to be actively resisting. Pressed as closely against him as she was, Jughead could still feel the unaccustomed emotional distance between them in every line of her body.

“It won’t improve the coffee _per se_ ,” he told her ruefully, “but I’m hoping it might… just improve our day.”

Betty craned her neck back a bit to look at him curiously. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“I want to wash your hair,” Jughead told her.

Betty blinked at him once. Twice. Then, a dull flush spread up her cheeks, and he knew before she spoke that he’d already messed up in some way.

“Does it smell bad?” she asked him in all-too-evident mortification. “I didn’t take time to wash it this morning, but…”

“No!” Jughead hastened to assured her, mentally chastising himself as an ass. “It smells amazing! _You_ smell amazing.”

“Then why…” Betty’s voice trailed off, her flush fading, but confusion still writ large on her face.

“Because it felt incredible when you did it for me,” he told her, “and because I want to… take care of you, the way you’ve been taking care of me… the way you always take care of everyone.” He could see the conflict in her face, and he hurried onward. “Lookit. I’m not trying to buy your forgiveness. You said you forgive me, and I believe you. And I’m not trying to short-circuit you being mad at me. You have every right to be mad, and that will just… last as long as it lasts. I just…” he paused, lifting his arm from her shoulder for a moment to run his fingers through his hair as he searched for words.

At last, he fell back on the ones he’d already used. “You washing my hair for me felt _incredible_ ,” he told her again. “Not just because it needed washing, and I couldn’t do it myself… although it _did_ and I _couldn’t_. But it was incredible and amazing in all kinds of other ways.

“It felt amazing physically; I had no idea how sensitive my head was, or how much I’d love to be touched there, until you started doing that for me. And it amazing because it made me feel… cared for… _cherished_ , even. It felt like… love.

“And I was just laying here thinking about you… about how you are always and endlessly taking care of people. And it’s not just me, and it’s not just these past few weeks. It’s so much bigger than that. You have spent _years_ cleaning up Archie’s messes, and trying to make up for his parents’ mistakes. You’ve gone to war to defend your sister, and Ethel, and the Serpents… You’ve spent hours visiting my dad – not to mention half the other inmates – and brought cookies and smiles and encouragement and made every one of them feel like there’s no place you’d rather spend your Sunday afternoon than that God-awful visiting room

“I know you’re strong, Betts, and I know you can take care of yourself.” He half laughed again. “I honestly think you may be the only functional adult in this whole damned town.

“I just… I want you to feel what I felt when you were washing my hair… what it’s like to feel cherished when you’re in the middle of coping with a world of suck. And yeah, some of this is about payback, because I built a good chunk of your current world of suck with my own two hands. But mostly… I just want you to have that feeling -- the feeling of someone taking care of _you_ for a change -- and I don’t know any way to make that happen except by doing what you did for me.

“So please, Betty? Let me wash your hair?”

Betty’s eyes had been shining with unshed tears, and she’d looked at him a long moment before she spoke.

“Okay,” she’d said simply.

All of which had brought him _here_ to the exquisite perfection of this moment… of steam perfumed with the fragrance of the shampoo Betty had started keeping here… of diamond-bright beads of water on Betty’s lashes… of her breasts flushed pink with heat, her hair twined around his fingers, her limbs boneless with relaxation… of her soft sighs assuring him that being cherished was a sensation she’d happily get used to.

There had, of course, been a dicey moment between the invitation and the execution.

“You’re wearing swim trunks?” Betty had challenged him in disbelief when he’d met her in the bathroom.

He’d felt himself flushing, feeling slightly ridiculous, but…

“This isn’t about sex,” he’d told her as seriously as he could muster. “It’s about taking care of you. And I should be able to do _that_ with my pants on.”

She’d rolled her eyes at that… but she’d smiled, too, and he’d decided to consider that a win, and to be thankful he’d trusted his instinct.

He’d had cause to be _more_ thankful, it turned out, as his plan progressed. Given his determination to keep sex out of this encounter, to make it solely about Betty and her relaxation, it was at the very least fortuitous that he’d had his swim trunks to partially camouflage his unmistakable, physical reaction to Betty’s nearness, to her nakedness, and to the little sounds of pleasure and appreciation she seemed unaware that she was making.

“Juggie,” she moaned breathily now as his hands, threaded through her hair, massaged strongly at her scalp.

“Good?” he asked her, taking refuge in brevity as his only possible chance of speaking naturally.

“ _Ung unh_ …” she groaned in what sounded like an unambiguous, if inarticulate, affirmative.

Her hair was already both clean and conditioned, but Jughead couldn’t bring himself to leave this paradise while even a single drop of hot water remained, so he gradually worked his hands down through Betty’s hair to the nape of her neck, and then to her shoulders. He smoothed his palms across the wet satin of her skin, pausing here and there to press the heels of his hands into her hard-knotted muscles, following the intensity of her moans to target his attentions. Gradually, Betty bent forward, away from him, to rest her forehead against the wall of the shower, her arms resting on the slick acrylic surface as if her legs could no longer hold her weight.

Jughead gritted his teeth and steadfastly kept his eyes focused on Betty’s shoulders, her hair, the sliver of her profile he could see… anything to avoid noticing the way her posture tilted her hips back towards him, the way the curve of her waist was exaggerated, the increased proximity of her derriere to his… swim trunks. Ignoring all of those, he trained his attention with an almost physical effort of will onto the feeling of her muscles beneath his hands, the sensation of the knots gradually relaxing into greater elasticity, the softening of her posture, the way she seemed almost to be melting into the wall…

Until an icy blast of water shocked him into awareness. They had, perhaps inevitably, exhausted the supply of hot water. And, although his body was bearing the brunt of it, a spray of cold had obviously hit Betty, if her startled gasp and sudden snap back to an upright posture were to be believed.

“Sorry,” he told her quickly. “Let me just…” he pulled back the curtain at Betty’s side and gave her a hand to step out on legs hat seemed to tremble slightly, leaning over to wrap her in the two _least_ threadbare towels the trailer had to offer. “Give me just a sec,” he added, and she nodded dazedly, slumping slightly against the wall again now that the cold spray was no longer assaulting her senses.

Jughead twitched the curtain closed again and turned to face the icy blast of the water – son of a _bitch_! Why did the water pressure always seem to double the second the hot water ran out? – and allowed it to pound at him for several agonizing, but essential, seconds.

When his body was somewhat subdued, he gratefully switched off the water and stepped out of his sodden trunks, leaving them on the floor of the cubicle and reaching out to grab himself yet another, significantly thinner and less comforting, towel. He dried his body quickly, then wrapped the damp towel around his hair to prevent it dripping Then, he stepped out of the shower, finding a sliver of space beside Betty on the dingy, shag-style bathmat, where she still stood, looking glassy-eyed and half asleep.

“You haven’t had your Saturday nap yet,” he told her softly. “Let’s get you into bed.”

Betty blinked at him, appearing confused for a moment, as though she’d been sleeping on her feet, but then she nodded.

A moment later, though, her eyes flew fully open in surprise as he scooped her up in his arms.

“Jughead…” she began, her tone turning his name into a protest.

“Shut up and relax, Betts,” he told her tenderly as he carried her, still wrapped in towels, into the trailer’s one bedroom. “Unless you want me to think you don’t believe I’m sturdy enough to carry you six feet,” he added.

Of course, even in the trailer, the actual distance was something greater than six feet… and, if he were being honest, his body was vociferously protesting his unaccustomed physical exertion. While his ribs were mostly healed, he hadn’t lifted anything heavier than a coffee cup in more weeks than he cared to remember. But he knew, though she never complained about it, that Betty’s sleep situation hadn’t improved. She was exhausted, the cumulative weight of too many weeks of sleep deprivation crushing her resilience, and her sleepy-eyed gaze made him want to tuck her into bed before she managed to think of anything else she ‘should’ be doing.

He was thankful that Betty was too tired to argue with him. She just nodded groggily and nestled more closely into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He couldn’t have argued with her right now if his life had depended on it – at least not without risk of dropping her and thus decimating his caretaking aspirations – but her complaisance gave him hope that he would reach the bed without mishap.

To his immense relief, Jughead made it to the bedroom without incident – or further conversation – and was able to turn down the covers and deposit Betty, more or less gently, on the bed, pulling aside the towels she was wrapped in and tossing them in the general direction of FP’s laundry hamper.

Pausing a moment to cover his pillow with the towel that had been wrapped around his hair, Jughead slid into the bed behind her, his arm nestling into the curve of her waist and settling her satin body more securely against him.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, but she was already asleep.


	73. Chapter 73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been an age since I posted, and this is only a short one. It was part of another chapter, but that one was just becoming unwieldy, so this ended up as a stand-alone. The next chapter will be up within a couple of days, though!

### Chapter 73

The shadows were lengthening when Betty woke up, disoriented for a moment to find herself in FP’s bedroom, and naked, unsure what time or even what _day_ it was. She was too comfortable, though, to be overly troubled by it. The bed was familiar by now, as was Jughead’s solid warmth behind and wrapped around her, his arm curved across her waist, his hand resting between her breasts. She could tell by his breathing that he was still asleep… which was surprising in itself. Jughead rarely slept during the day. When she napped at the trailer, Jughead always stayed with her. That was the whole point, actually… to grant her the untroubled sleep that only seemed to come with his presence. But he normally read, curled up beside her in bed, or scribbled out notes for something he’d write later. It was unusual for him to drift off during one of her naps. Unusual for them both to sleep naked, too, as a matter of fact. Up to this point in their relationship, their nudity had been restricted to fairly specific contexts; they’d always pulled on pyjamas or sweats before retiring for the night.

Unfamiliar as it was, though, Betty realized that she liked it. The reassuring solidity of Jughead’s presence was amplified by the sensation of all that skin against hers… the way his body seemed to envelop her.

And, of course, their nakedness provided a useful reminder of what had been happening immediately prior to their nap… of their shower, and the gentle way Jughead had washed her hair, taking his time to scrub and to rinse as if nothing in the world needed his attention more.

On the down side, it also prompted a less pleasant memory… a reminder of why Jughead had suggested the shower in the first place.

Rested and clean, Betty no longer felt the sharp stab of hurt she’d experienced earlier. The confused whirl of conflicting emotions that had held her in thrall had now died down, like a headache, held in abeyance by a heavy dose of painkillers, but still looming. Right now, in _this_ moment, she wasn’t even mad anymore… although, she ruefully admitted to herself, there was a solid chance that “mad” would come around again. But right now, right here, she just felt…

Well, she wasn’t exactly sure what or how she felt. Hollow? Brittle? It felt more physical than emotional… as if something essential had been dragged out of her body and then misplaced… as if she could shatter if struck too hard before it was restored. She felt like one of the raw eggs her mother used to drain through a pinhole when Betty was a little girl, leaving only an empty shell to be decorated, fragile and futile.

But Betty’s reflections were interrupted as Jughead began to stir behind her, his breathing shifting from the easy pattern of sleep to a more conscious rhythm, his arm at her waist squeezing her briefly before he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck.

“You been awake long?” he asked, his voice still sleepy his words slightly muffled against her neck.

“A few minutes,” she answered, her own voice still husky with sleep. Jughead hummed an acknowledgement, but didn’t respond otherwise. He also didn’t move… just lay there against her, the weight of his body dragging her deeper into the mattress.

Betty wasn’t complaining. She was warm, she was comfortable. Yes, she felt a little fragile just now. But resting in this stillness felt like an appropriate treatment for her fragility… as if whatever she’d been drained of could be replenished if only she stayed here long enough.

For a few moments, she and Jughead didn’t speak or move, and Betty could almost imagine they’d never have to move again… that they could stay in this stillness always.

But even as the thought came, she knew it was an illusion. Quite apart from the harsh realities of life and relationships that would, eventually, demand attention, there was the more mundane reality that Bruce and Molly were expecting them for dinner. Betty had no idea how long she and Jughead had slept; for all she knew, they might already be late.

“You’re worrying about something,” Jughead murmured against the nape of her neck. His voice sounded more awake now, but still relaxed.

“I’m not _worrying_ ,” Betty protested, and Jughead nipped at the back of her neck playfully.

“Liar,” he accused, but his tone was affectionate rather than chiding.

“I’m _not_ ,” she insisted, and Jughead rose up on one arm, shifted his weight quickly across her body, and lay down on her other side, almost nose to nose with her.

“You are,” he said firmly, his gaze compelling her attention. “Your breathing has sped up and gotten shallower, and your body’s so tense it’s practically vibrating. You’ve gone from napping to nuclear in record time.”

Betty laughed reluctantly, then deliberately relaxed her muscles even as she took several long, deep, cleansing breaths.

“Better?” Jughead asked, and she nodded, surprised to find that she meant it. She hadn’t _consciously_ been worrying, but the degree of relief she felt at relaxing told her Jughead had been right after all: she _had_ tensed up with the thought that they might be late.

“I was just wondering what time it is,” she told Jughead, who was propped on one elbow to look down at her.

“You were worried about being late,” Jughead interpreted, and Betty couldn’t help but laugh a little at his acuity. “I’m pretty sure we’re not,” he continued, “but it would be okay if we were. Bruce and Molly are pretty understanding.”

Betty knew that was true, but it didn’t stop her pursing her lips in distaste at the idea of keeping them waiting.

“Would you feel better if I checked the time?” Jughead asked her, and Betty nodded sheepishly. Without another word, he dropped a kiss on her forehead and levered himself off the bed, disappearing into the hall. Within seconds – the trailer really wasn’t that big – he was back with both of their phones.

“Barely four,” he told her, and Betty felt her entire body slacken still further with the realization that they had time to spare. “They’re not expecting us for at least another hour and a half, and we won’t really be ‘late’ for at least two,” he added, giving voice to her own thoughts.

Betty nodded, tucking her phone under her pillow after a brief disaster check – no messages or missed calls from her mother, Polly, Veronica, or Kevin – and flopped onto her back. “It’s weird there’s no clock in here,” she commented.

“Not really,” Jughead disagreed even as he climbed back into bed beside her. “FP has never exactly been legendary for his punctuality.” Betty wondered if it was her imagination, or if there was just a hint of bitterness in Jughead’s tone. “ _And_ it’s not like he’s traditionally had a job to get to anyway.” So, _not_ her imagination.

“Well, I like to be on time,” she said, deciding to skip any probing on Jughead’s tone until she was feeling a little less drained herself. They’d dug into enough wounds already today, and she was spent. At this point, she just wanted to enjoy what was left of the day with her boyfriend. “Maybe I should…”

“Let me buy a clock for this room?”Jughead interrupted to suggest. “You know, since you’ve already stocked the freezer _and_ the medicine cabinet?”

“But you don’t even care about a clock, Juggie,” Betty protested. “You shouldn’t have to…”

“I don’t ‘have’ to; I _want_ to,” Jughead countered, “because, while I don’t care about a clock, I do care about you. Besides,” he added with an eyebrow-waggling grin, “I can nest, too.”

“Nest?” Betty could feel her right eyebrow lifting as she echoed the odd word choice.

“You know,” Jughead pressed. “ _Nesting_ … homemaking… the filling of cabinets and painting of nurseries that people do when they’re expecting babies or snowstorms or houseguests.”

Betty snorted with laughter, much to her own embarrassment. “Ah, _nest_ ,” she said in an exaggerated tone of discovery. “Although… doesn’t it at least seem like people should know which of the three they’re expecting?”

“Well _sure_ , Elizabeth," Jughead said with pretended sarcasm. "In a perfect world, we'd _all_ know whether we need an obstetrician or a meteorologist. But sometimes we just have to adapt. My point,” he added more seriously, “is that you’ve done your part already. You filled the freezer, which makes this place feel like home to me. If a clock in here will make it feel like home to _you_ , then I’d really like to be the one to make that happen.”


	74. Chapter 74

### Chapter 74

Dinner was, predictably, wonderful. Betty was beginning to live for Saturday nights at the Fosters, for the chance to set down her masks and her accomplishments and just… belong. Time with Jughead was all-too rare these days, but honestly, she’d have cherished her nights at the Fosters’ even if he weren’t a part of them. The food was always simple, but delicious. More importantly, the company was invariably easy and understanding.

True to her word, Molly sent Betty out to the garage after dinner to “muck around,” waving off her offer to help with the dishes first. Unexpectedly, by the time Betty had changed from her green dress into her overalls, Molly was waiting for her at the door to the garage, wrapped in an oversized sweater and holding two mugs of tea.

“Bruce and Jughead kicked me out of the kitchen,” she laughingly explained. “Apparently, they’re going to clean up.”

“Are they _actually_ going to clean up,” Betty asked, her voice pitched to carry to the kitchen, “or are they just going to finish off the dessert while we’re not looking?”

“Both!” Bruce and Jughead called in unison, and she and Molly rolled their eyes – also in unison – but didn’t comment as Betty accepted a mug of tea from Molly and followed her into the garage.

“I didn’t know you were a ‘garage’ person,” Betty told Molly as she switched on a light and shivered. The garage was unheated and scantily insulated, and she was thankful for the tea, if only as a portable heat source.

Molly shrugged. “I’m really more of a ‘letting Bruce do the dishes person,” she admitted. “If that means, hanging out in the garage, so be it.”

Betty smiled appreciatively, then raised her eyebrows as Molly pulled out a lawn chair and a small side table, settling in with every appearance of both familiarity and comfort.

“So… does Bruce do a lot of dishes?” she asked teasingly.

“Not enough,” was Molly’s laughing reply. “But I’ll sometimes sit out here on a summer evening with an iced tea or a beer while Bruce… fiddles with things.” She waved a hand vaguely as she spoke, as if to illustrate that the details of her husband’s “fiddling” were of no real interest to her.

Betty smiled again. “That sounds nice,’ she said genuinely as she raised the hood of Bruce’s truck. She couldn’t even imagine her mother sitting in the garage to keep her dad company while he worked. It wasn’t until Molly laughed again that Betty realized she’d spoken her thought aloud.

“To be honest, I can’t picture that either,” Molly told her.

“You know my parents?” Betty asked in surprised, and then wondered if it was her imagination that made her think that Molly winced, as if she hadn’t meant to reveal that information.

“Knew them,” Molly said shortly. “Past tense. _Very_ past tense.”

Betty waited, her hands busy under the hood of the truck, but Molly seemed disinclined to elaborate. “How?” she prompted when her patience ran out.

“High school,” Molly returned, still uncharacteristically laconic. Betty paused in her work, trying to convey wordlessly that she was waiting for more, and Molly sighed almost inaudibly. “I was a couple of years older than them. Still am, I suppose,” she added, and Betty smiled mechanically. “It was…”

Betty waited, but Molly seemed lost in thought. “It was?” Betty prompted at last.

This time, Molly’s sigh was louder, frustrated, not as if she were angry with Betty, but rather as if her memories were unpleasant. “It was my sister who was in their class,” Molly said, and there was finality in her tone. “What are you working on there?”

Betty wasn’t sure why Molly didn’t want to discuss her sister or Betty’s parents… but she was getting a pretty clear “change the subject” signal, so she went with it.

“Checking the battery,” she answered. “I’m about done checking for any corrosion. When I finish, I’ll hook up my multimeter to check the charge.”

“Bruce hasn’t mentioned any battery trouble,” Molly mentioned mildly, but Betty could tell her hostess thought she was wasting her time.

“That’s good,” she responded smilingly, “but it’s worth checking at the start of the winter anyway. Sometimes, colder weather can lead to… surprises. I’ll check yours, too, when I’m done. I did the cars at our house last night.” Jughead was generally with the Serpents Friday nights – or so she deduced, from his vague reference to “friends” – so that was her standard time for household chores. Homework, she divided between early Saturday mornings, before she visited the trailer, and Sunday afternoons.

“Fair enough,” Molly shrugged, a sip of her tea. “You’re the grease monkey.”

Betty laughed out loud at that, and paused in her work to meet Molly’s gaze directly. If Molly was joking with her again, this might be a chance to press a little further. “That I am,” she acknowledged, “much to my mother’s chagrin.”

Molly laughed, too, but this time, Betty was watching her closely and knew she hadn’t imagined that shuttering of her gaze, the subtle withdrawal. Just as significantly, Molly didn’t walk through the conversational door Betty had just opened by mentioning her mother.

“I’d be pleased for Brendan to be handy with cars,” she said, referencing her biological son rather than pursuing the discussion of the Coopers. “I’d feel safer, knowing he was independent… that he could check his car before heading out on a trip, or deal with an emergency on the road.”

“Hey, I agree with you,” Betty answered mildly as she continued her work. On impulse, though – and against all habit and training – she decided to push a little further, rather than following Molly’s conversational lead. “But Mom prefers that we be academically successful… which, in her world, means we’ll be _financially_ successful, which in turn will lead to our having ‘people’ to deal with the mundane issues of daily life… and having wealthy husbands to negotiate with tradespeople.”

Molly laughed again, reluctantly, but genuinely. “That’s actually not at all surprising,” she acknowledged ruefully. “Alice never _was_ one for getting her hands dirty.”

“What _was_ she for, then?” Betty asked, pausing again in her work. She immediately regretted her probing, though, as she saw Molly’s expression shut down again.

“We weren’t close,’ Molly told her dismissively.

“What a surprise,” Betty spat, with a sarcasm she rarely permitted herself. “She gave _birth_ to me, and sometimes I’m not sure _we’re_ close! I mean, I didn’t even know until I found an old newspaper clipping that she grew up on the south side! I just… I feel like she’d seem more _human_ if I could at least understand where she came from.”

Molly snorted loudly. “Don’t bet on it,” she muttered, and Betty laughed her surprise. “I shouldn’t have said that,” the older woman backpedalled quickly. “Your mother and I… weren’t friends. She and my sister weren’t friends either. There are probably better people than me to get your insights from… people who can give you a fair picture of what she was like, if that’s really what you want.”

“Screw fair,” Betty said, surprising even herself with her own vehemence, and feeling a grim satisfaction at Molly’s startled blink. “Half of this town seems to have gone to high school with my mother, and yet I can’t find so much as a scrap of evidence that _anyone_ was her friend. My friends’ parents either ignore her, or are overtly hostile to her. Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you?”

“No.” Molly’s flat reply surprised her. “If I’m being honest, it would seem a lot more strange if you _did_ unearth any high school friends. ‘Friends’… weren’t really her thing.”

A part of Betty wanted to accept that statement at face value. It tallied, after all, with her own observations. And yet… “Wasn’t she prom queen?” she challenged. “Twice??? She _must_ have been popular.”

“Popular? Sure,” Molly nodded. “But not especially well-liked.”

“It’s the same thing!” Betty objected.

“Is it?” Molly asked, looking at her intently. “Because Alice was… powerful. She was feared, which, for a south side _girl_ in those days was no small feat. She was maybe even envied, despite her lack of pedigree… and in our day, at least, “feared, powerful, and envied” was enough to pass for popular. Didn’t make us like her any better, though.”

Betty thought about that for a moment… thought about it hard enough that her hands fell still under the hood of the truck without her even being aware of it. She thought about the social hierarchy at today’s Riverdale High, about Cheryl Blossom and her entourage, and she had to admit that Molly had a point. If she, Betty, had been asked to name the most popular girls at school, Cheryl would at the very least have been in her top three. And yet, wrack her brains though she might, she honestly couldn’t name one person who’d call Cheryl a friend.

“Maybe it isn’t,” she admitted. “Although you’ve now irrevocably shattered my understanding of high school social dynamics. Thanks for that, by the way,” she added dryly. “It’s nice to get some of my middle-aged disillusionment out of the way early.”

Molly laughed more naturally than she had since they’d come to the garage. “That sounded like a Jughead comment,” she teased. “Seems like he’s rubbing off on you.”

Betty smiled and returned to her work, her brain as busy as her hands.

“So… what _was_ she like?” she asked at last, as she was packing away her multimeter, having ascertained that the battery was fine. Her question was so abrupt that Molly startled, sloshing tea on herself and making a face.

“Sorry,” Betty winced in sympathy. “Did you burn yourself?”

Molly laughed again. “I should be so lucky,” she said. “Tragically, my tea is stone cold at this point… which means that _I_ am both cold and soggy. We should go inside.”

“Because you’re cold and soggy? Or to avoid any more discussion of my mother?” Betty asked shrewdly.

“Exactly,” Molly nodded, and Betty had to laugh reluctantly, loth as she was to let the subject drop. Before she could even draw breath to push for more, though, Molly forestalled her, talking fast, as if trying to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“Your mother dated like it was her job,” she said bluntly, “aggressively and joylessly. She was never single, and she was never satisfied. She was always… _angling_ for her next ‘promotion,’ the next guy that could bring her more status, more respectability, whatever.” Betty winced again, for more personal reasons this time. It wasn’t really hard to picture – her mother was _still_ perpetually scrambling for status, and, even after 20 years of marriage, Betty wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t drop Hal Cooper if a more advantageous offer came along – but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“What about you?” Betty asked as Molly folded her lawn chair and returned it to a hook on the wall. “Or, what about all the girls she went to school with… _any_ of the girls she went to school with?”

“If they were lucky, she ignored them,” Molly answered, now shoving the side table that had held her mug back into a corner of the garage.

“And if they weren’t?” Betty pressed, not even sure why she was pushing so hard… she, who was always so careful not to overstep.

“If they weren’t?” Molly echoed Betty’s words, but she was already at the door back into the house, and she kept her back to Betty as she answered. “She ate them alive.”

And without another word, Molly walked back into the house without so much as a backward glance, shutting the door behind her and leaving Betty alone with her whirling thoughts and an ice-cold mug of tea.


	75. Chapter 75

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been, by my estimate, about a hundred and fifty years since I posted a chapter. It got a little noisy in my head, and I couldn't hear the characters' voices anymore.
> 
> In part, the noise was my "real life" demanding to be lived -- long-distance planning for my parents' 50th wedding anniversary, a family road trip to host the big event, camping trips and parenting and a day job -- and in part, I got weirdly anxious about the story itself. Until this fic, I've never really showed my writing to anyone (except, obviously, for class assignments when I was in school). And I started out saying, "maybe it'll be terrible, but what does it hurt to have some fun with it and throw it out there?" That served me well for the first year or so. I had a ball writing, and many of you provided amazing feedback and kudos and made me feel like a part of this amazing community.
> 
> And then one day, I started looking at how many people had actually read this thing -- and how much time you'd invested in getting to this point -- and I got a bit paralyzed with fear that I couldn't finish it, or that the payoff (in terms of where the story's going) wouldn't be worth the hours you've spent reading, and every sentence I wrote looked stupid and stilted and I just... froze. Wherever you go, there you are, and it turns out, my perfectionism and my insecurities followed me into fandom, even if they took a bit of a breather when I was getting started. So I stared at a blank page in my notebook, or wrote a sentence or two... and then I just went and read someone else's story instead.
> 
> But I have vacationed now, and I've rested, and it's given me a chance to remember how much I love these characters, and how much joy telling their story has brought me. It's reminded me of how satisfying it is to just write the story the way I hear it, and share it with anyone who wants to come along for the ride, and not worry that someone else could do it better (many of you do!), or won't enjoy it (I can't really control that anyway!). And it's given me a chance to hear the characters again, clamouring to finish what they've started, good or bad, smooth or choppy, plausible or ridiculous.
> 
> So I'm diving back into it. I don't know how rusty I've gotten, or how fast or slow it will be, getting the words flowing again, or how long it will take to finish the story I originally wanted to tell. But I'm committed to having fun with it, and to sharing my fun with anyone who wants to come along. And this time, I'll try to remember not to fall into the trap of overthinking it!
> 
> Thank you, to all of you who have hung in, both through the LOONG story and the LOONG wait for it to continue. It's a privilege to imagine out loud with all of you!
> 
> Best,
> 
> Blue

### Chapter 75

“Merry Christmas, Juggie!” Betty said breathlessly when Jughead opened the Fosters’ door at precisely 11:00 on Christmas morning, in perfect accord with her colour-coded timetable. (“10:48 a.m. – Polly arrives at Thornhill. 11:00 a.m. – Betty arrives at Fosters’. 2:13 p.m. – Betty and Jughead leave to visit FP.”)

“Merry Christmas, Betts,” he answered, appreciating the picture she made with her dark green tam and scarf setting off her golden hair, scattered flakes of snow sparkling around her like crystalline stars in the wintery sunlight. He bent to kiss her quickly, even as he raised an arm above her head to open the door wider, making room for her to come inside. She returned his kiss awkwardly, somewhat hampered by the large box she was holding, which appeared to be brimming over with… Christmas, in all its assorted forms. “Can I take this for you?” he asked, and she nodded emphatically, handing it over while she knocked the snow off her boots and stepped inside.

“Just for a sec while I get my coat off,” she told him.

Jughead backed up clumsily, trying to leave her space to hang up her coat, while still searching for a place to set down Betty’s box.

“Are you moving in?” he asked teasingly, as he finally shoved it into the corner of the hall, just outside the kitchen door.

“Is that an option?” she countered, deftly tucking her gloves into her coat pockets, sliding her hat and scarf into its sleeves, and hanging the whole thing on the hook behind the front door that was always tacitly left free for her convenience.

“Yes!” Bruce and Molly shouted in unison from the kitchen, effectively forestalling any response Jughead might have made.

“Good to know,” Betty grinned delightedly before slipping her hands into Jughead’s hair and pulling him close to kiss him sweetly, lingeringly, now that the was no obstacle between them.

“What _is_ all this?” Jughead asked, gesturing vaguely towards the box as he reluctantly allowed Betty to step back from him after several blissful moments.

“Well,” Betty stepped past him and pulled several beautifully wrapped packages from the box, “ _these_ are for you.” Jughead accepted the pile of packages from her and moved to place them under the tree, reminding himself not to feel inadequate as he contrasted their boutique window-worthy appearance with the far-less skillfully wrapped items he’d placed under the tree earlier, ready to give to Betty. By the time he’d returned to her, her arms were laden yet again. “ _These_ are for brunch,” she told him as he hurried to help her carry this load into the kitchen, “and the rest is for FP, later.”

As they unloaded her brunch contributions onto the counter, Jughead found a moment to marvel at Betty’s tact. Had she brought gifts for the Fosters, there’d have been a risk of awkwardness. Yet Betty was constitutionally incapable of arriving _anywhere_ on Christmas morning, empty-handed. And so she’d brought treats to share… little, consumable luxuries that they all could enjoy at brunch… a pound of gourmet coffee his fingers itched to open... a box of Clementine oranges, so perfectly ripe that their fragrance could be detected, even amidst the rich, homey scents of bacon and eggs… a platter of pastries, still warm from her oven… and a plate of beautifully decorated Christmas cookies that looked like they belonged between the covers of a high-end magazine.

“Keep this up,” Bruce said, leaning against the counter as he watched Betty and Jughead add her offerings to the already overflowing table, “and moving in will cease to be an ‘option’ and become obligatory instead.” Betty laughed, a blush increasing the rose that the cold had nipped into her cheeks.

“I’m in favour,” Jughead added laconically, leaning across the laden table to kiss her again.

“Wouldn’t that make Betty kinda your sister?” asked a voice from the doorway. “Could get creepy.”

“Ew,” Betty said, wrinkling her nose.

“Way to kill the moment, B,” Bruce said, but he couldn’t conceal either the amusement or the affection in his tone. 

Betty was gazing at the speaker in polite puzzlement, and Jughead hastened to make the introductions.

“Betty Cooper, meet Brandon Foster,” he said. “Bran was Bruce and Molly’s trial run,” he added helpfully. “You know… the starter son, before they upgraded.”

“Silence, spawn,” Brandon said without heat, and Jughead found himself grinning like an idiot. For all that they had only met two days ago, when Brandon had arrived for a brief, holiday visit, they’d quickly established a comfortable rapport. It really did feel a bit like he imagined having a big brother; Brandon was… exactly what he would have expected in a son of Bruce and Molly’s. He was warm and funny and easygoing, and he made Jughead forget – too easily – that he hadn’t been a part of this family all his life… that all this “togetherness” was both borrowed and temporary… that he might never, in fact, spend another Christmas with these people he’d come to love more quickly than he’d have thought possible.

As if sensing the abrupt downturn in his mood, Betty came around to his side of the table, slipped her arm around his waist, and rested her head against his shoulder. She didn’t say anything, didn’t kiss him or make any romantic overtures. She just… hugged him. Held him. Stood shoulder to shoulder with him, as if determined to share in his sudden sadness just as fully as in the unprecedented ease of this day.

“So what’s the agenda?” Jughead asked Molly with forced casualness, squeezing Betty’s shoulder as he spoke in silent gratitude for her support.

“Food,” Brandon cut in to answer. “We have to eat all this amazing food before you two spoil our appetites, playing kissy-face in front of the Christmas tree.”

“Food first,” Molly confirmed, rolling her eyes.

“If only to make sure these pastries don’t cool before I get them in my mouth,” Bruce interjected.

Molly clucked at him chidingly before she continued. “Then, Bruce and I are going for a walk, and Brandon is going to occupy himself elsewhere while you two do your gifts by the tree.” Brandon began to make exaggerated smooching noises, and Molly sighed heavily. “Ignore my first born,” she added. “He’s just salty because _he_ doesn’t have anyone to play kissy-face with this year.”

“That’s a half-truth at best,” Brandon protested jokingly.

“Which half?” Betty asked, her eyes innocently wide, and Bruce shouted with laughter even as Brandon grinned appreciatively.

“You, I like,” he told her, motioning her towards a seat at the table, “and I haven’t even tried your pastries yet.”

***

“You doing okay?” Betty asked, and Jughead glanced at her quickly. There was just a touch too much sympathy in her voice for the question to be merely casual.

“I’m fine,” he told her shortly, reaching across the truck’s gear shift, and Betty’s box of gifts, to squeeze her knee. “I’m great, even.”

“You’ve had a good Christmas then?” Betty pressed.

“Yeah,” he confirmed automatically, only to realize upon reflection that it was true. “ _Yeah_ ,” he repeated more forcefully. “The best ever, actually. So much so that it feels like Rod Serling should be providing a voiceover.”

Betty didn’t laugh. “How so?” she asked instead.

“How is it the best?” he temporized, playing for time, almost wishing he hadn’t expanded on his original response. “Or how is it _Twilight Zone_ freaky?”

Betty shrugged. “Either.”

“I guess it’s pretty much the same answer either way,” Jughead told her ruefully, keeping his eyes on the snowy road as he drove. “Point one: there were both presents under the tree _and_ food on the table this morning. Neither of those has been a consistent feature of Jones family Christmases. And to have _both_ in the same year?” He snorted derisively. “Unprecedented.

“Point two: it’s now well past two p.m., and no one has passed out drunk on the front lawn, the living room floor, or any more discreet location, or stormed out of the house for the Whyte Wyrm, intent on passing out on _their_ floor instead.

“Point three: further to my previous point, it is _still_ past two p.m., and no one has screamed at anyone else, accused them of ruining anyone’s life, or referred to me or anyone else as ‘these goddamned kids.’ I mean, honest to God, Betts, it barely even feels like Christmas, I’m so deprived of my family’s holiday traditions.” He had tried for a joking tone, but even to his own ears, it fell a little flat.

“You’ve enjoyed the change, though?” Betty said, less a question than a statement, and Jughead almost managed to laugh.

Almost.

“Who wouldn’t?” he asked her. He’d meant to sound only matter of fact, but even he could hear the bitter edge to his tone. “I almost wish there _was_ a Rod Serling narration, just to remind me how sideways this all is… just to keep me from getting too comfortable… enjoying it too much.”

“ _Why_?” Betty sounded honestly baffled. “Jug, what’s wrong with _enjoying_ the best Christmas you’ve ever had?”

Jughead tried again to laugh, but it came out sounding more like a sob.

“It’s an illusion, Betty!” he told her almost angrily. “A mirage. It can’t last.”

“Why not?” she asked, and he felt a surge of irritation.

“Because this is a Foster Christmas, Betty, and my name is Jones,” he told her, his voice a little too loud, his tone a little too harsh. “Sure, I get today. I may even get another Christmas like this one, if FP’s luck at trial is as bad as his luck in the rest of his life.

“But sooner or later, Betty, one of two things is gonna happen. Either my Dad will get out of jail, or I’ll turn 18. Doesn’t much matter which one comes first. Either way, my time masquerading as a Foster will come to a screeching halt. And if I let myself enjoy all _this_ too much,” he gestured vaguely, comprehensively around him, “the reality of the rest of my life as a Jones is going to be unbearable.”


	76. Chapter 76

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this one got away from me a bit. It is LONG. You may want to pack yourself a snack before starting.

### Chapter 76

“Are you ready?” Betty asked, squeezing Jughead’s hand in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, then wondered if she was being silly to imagine he needed reassurance. This was, after all, hardly their first visit to the prison; they’d been driving over every second weekend since FP’s arraignment. And they’d visited him frequently in the county lock-up behind the Sheriff’s office for weeks before that. They knew the process, knew the rules, even recognized some of the guards, at least by sight. This was… familiar, if not quite routine.

But _Christmas_ in a prison felt different, somehow: both harsher and sadder than their regular visits… especially when contrasted with the easy warmth of the hours they’d spent at the Fosters’ tiny bungalow on the south side. Betty felt the difference herself – depressed and anxious in a way she usually wasn’t on their visits, she made a conscious effort to open the hand that wasn’t holding Jughead’s, reminding herself not to drive her nails into it – and didn’t think she was imagining the heavy, hopeless sadness that seemed to have settled over Jughead on the drive over… a sadness shot through with a thread of simmering anger. Still, she didn’t want to project her own malaise onto Jughead, and she found herself wishing she hadn’t squeezed his hand so impulsively, and hoping she hadn’t been _too_ reassuring for his mood.

But then Juhgead returned the pressure of her hand, clinging just a bit, letting her know how badly he’d needed her silent support, even as he replied aloud with exaggerated bravado, “I was _born_ ready.”

Betty rolled her eyes pointedly at his dramatic pronouncement, even as she quietly nestled her hand more securely into the encircling warmth of his. She was happy to play along with his show of nonchalance, if that made this easier for him.

The prison staff had almost finished screening the box she’d brought, filled with gifts for FP and treats for the other inmates and their visitors. She wasn’t concerned by their scrutiny, though; she’d done her homework – had quite literally memorized the rules, in point of fact – and knew with absolute assurance that every item in that box would pass inspection with flying colours. She’d probably scored a few brownie points with the guards, too, by bringing the gifts unwrapped, saving them the time – and potential conflict – associated with opening them for inspection. To simplify the screening process, she’d measured and cut paper at home for each of the gifts; bringing scissors to the prison was unlikely to go well. She’d brought washi tape, too. Its bright patterns were festive, and would beautify the gifts even without ribbon… _and_ it was easy to tear by hand.

Sure enough, a guard was already waving her over to collect the box. “Looks good,” he told her gruffly, not quite smiling, but looking slightly less grim than she’d seen him on past visits.

“Thank you,” she told him, forcing a smile despite the general heaviness of the mood that had settled over her during the drive. “These are for you and the staff,” she added, lifting a large tin – green, with a pattern of dancing Santas – from the top of the box. “It’s never fun, having to work on the holidays.” The tin was stuffed to capacity with more of her decorated sugar cookies… a fact this guard was well aware of, having inspected its contents only moments ago.

This time, the guard _did_ smile at her, and the expression transformed his face, making him look younger… not so many years older than her, in fact. Maybe Brandon Foster’s age.

“That’s pretty close to a Christmas miracle, if you ask me,” he told her. “When I smelled those cookies, I was afraid I was going to drool all over them and ruin your pretty icing.”

Betty laughed, her heart lightening at his obvious pleasure. “Merry Christmas,” she told him, smiling again, and this time, her smile felt more natural.

“Merry Christmas,” he answered heartily enough to draw the attention of the depressingly small handful of other visitors in the screening area. “We’ll take you to the visiting room just as soon as we finish the rest of the screenings.” He nodded towards the other visitors… several of whom had brought wrapped gifts, and were now vociferously protesting the guards’ opening them for inspection.

“Thank you,” Betty told him.

“Thank _you_ ,” he replied, turning away to return to his work, and nearly bumping into Jughead as he did so. “Sir,” he acknowledged him with a courteous nod, leaving Jughead looking, first baffled, then inordinately amused at the greeting.

“For once, someone called me ‘sir’ without adding, ‘you’re making a scene,’” he told her, one eyebrow quirked, with no trace of either the seething resentment or the stone-cold despair he’d exhibited in the car.

“Pfft,” Betty blew a raspberry at him, but she was smiling as she hunkered down and began swiftly wrapping the gifts she’d brought. “Paraphrases are for crap. If you can’t quote verbatim, don’t quote at all.”

Jughead grinned at her and bent to give her a peck on the cheek as she knelt on the floor, wrapping gifts as quickly as she could. “Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly. “Can I help?” he added, gesturing towards her busy hands.

“Bows,” Betty nodded without pausing, then sighed slightly as he stared at her uncomprehendingly. “ _Bows_ ,” she repeated. “There’s a box of stick-on bows, sitting in the bigger box. I don’t have time to do anything to fancy with ribbons or embellishments, so just crack open the bow box, and stick one on each present.”

Jughead rummaged for a minute, then triumphantly produced the correct box. Pulling out a red bow, he peeled off the backing from its adhesive strip as he asked rhetorically, “How hard can it be?”

“He said, before supergluing his thumbs together,” Betty responded dryly, but she couldn’t resist twinkling her eyes at him as she said it.

“I only regret that I have but two thumbs to glue for my girlfriend,” he declaimed dramatically.

“Paraphrasing,” she singsonged at him warningly, “and _badly_ , I might add.”

Before Jughead could retort, another guard appeared before them. “Let’s go,” the newcomer said, jerking his head towards the corridor that had grown so familiar over their weeks of visiting. Betty sighed in frustration. She’d managed to wrap all the gifts, but they definitely didn’t look amazing. They looked like exactly what they were, in fact: prison-approved gifts, wrapped hastily under the impassive surveillance of the poor guards who’d drawn the short straw when it came to picking shifts. Still, Betty comforted herself that her cookies were both exquisite and delicious, and that she’d brought enough for everyone likely to be in the visiting room.

And then her inner monologue was interrupted as they entered the visiting room that had become so bleakly familiar, and FP jumped to his feet as soon as he caught sight of them, his expression a curious mixture of relief and exasperation.

“Well, you just keep raising the bar on romance, don’t you, Jug?” he called when they were still half a room away. “It’s not glamourous enough to bring your lady here on a regular weekend; you just have to pull out all the stops and celebrate Christmas here, too?” His somewhat exacting words were belied by the way he pulled Jughead into a tight hug and held him there, clinging, as if he wouldn’t ever let go… as if he’d been afraid they wouldn’t come at all.

“He’s actually doing me a favour, Mr. Jones,” Betty said over Jughead’s shoulder. “The alternative was spending the _entire_ day with my mother and her expectations. If we hadn’t had you to visit, I might have been forced to go re-alphabetize the card catalogue at the school library, or donate parts of my body for medical research, just to avoid a grizzly, multiple homicide.”

It was _half_ true, at least. If she were being _totally_ honest, she could cheerfully have skipped the prison visit, not to mention the 80-mile, round-trip drive, in favour of a few more hours with the Fosters… or a nap at the trailer, for that matter. She’d been up until all hours last night, decorating cookies, and her eyes were gritty with exhaustion.

But as FP finally released Jughead, Betty couldn’t bring herself to regret the visit. Acting on impulse, she leaned over to drop a quick kiss on the older man’s cheek, noticing as she did so that the said cheek was better-shaven than she’d ever seen it in the years before his incarceration. Enforced sobriety agreed with him… as did the dull flush that had crept upwards from his collar at her unprecedented display of affection. It made him look younger, both healthier and happier than she’d ever seen him, and she instinctively glanced at Jughead, seeing her own thoughts reflected back in his eyes. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Jones,” she smiled.

“It’ll be merrier if you’ll remember I’m just FP,” he told her, returning her smile and scrubbing at the back of his neck with one hand in a gesture that both reinforced her earlier impression of youth, and made her notice as she never had before his physical resemblance to Jughead. “’Mr. Jones’ makes me feel old.”

“You can call _me_ Mr. Jones,” Jughead told her, waggling his eyebrows at her suggestively, and Betty couldn’t repress a giggle, as much at FP’s look of frozen embarrassment as at Jughead’s silliness.

“D’ya think you could save the kink until I’m safely back in my cell, Jug?” FP growled, and Betty could feel her cheeks flushing, even though she couldn’t help laughing again.

“Kink?” Jughead raised his eyebrows now. “’Mr. Jones’ is kink? I gotta tell ya, Dad, at least one of us seems to have a woefully inadequate grasp of what that entails, and I’m honestly not sure which one.”

Betty’s cheeks were still burning, but FP’s blush was fading, and since he was damn near grinning his ass off at the same time, she decided she could handle a little embarrassment. Even better, Jughead was wearing a grin that was just as broad, looking as if his bleak mood in the truck had never existed.

“You two are going to stop talking about this – or anything _else_ that might conceivably get Jughead and me thrown out of here, I might add – and we are going to sit down and celebrate Christmas like civilized and entirely kink-free people,” she said with her best imitation of her mother’s most severe tone. No one was fooled by her pretended sternness, though; that much was obvious from the goofy grins the Jones men wore, their expressions so identically bright in the depressingly sterile visiting room with its even-more-depressing tinsel decorations that her heart twisted painfully with love and sorrow.

“Then let’s _do_ this,” Jughead said, grabbing a seat opposite his father – they were, by now, too well-versed in prison protocols to even attempt to sit beside him – and beginning to pull the hastily wrapped gifts out of the box.

“Just give me a minute,” Betty replied, kissing the top of his head as she leaned over him to pull out an oversized, lidded container and a couple of plastic trays. “I just want to put these cookies on the refreshment table.”

The refreshment table looked about as _un_ refreshing as it possibly could, the flimsy plastic table covering topped with nothing more appetizing than a stainless steel coffee urn disgorging what looked like muddy pond water into Styrofoam cups, and a paper plate of supermarket donuts of uncertain vintage. It only took a few minutes, though, to set out the two brightly coloured plastic platters she’d bought at the dime store and to artfully arrange on them the triple batch of cookies she’d spent most of yesterday decorating with exquisite precision. Paper cocktail napkins that she’d stacked, alternating red and green, on the way over made a colourful arc when she fanned them around the platters, and her hours of labour felt fully repaid when she heard a tiny girl at a nearby table breathe in sharply in awe.

“Oooh, Mama! Lookie!” she whispered delightedly.

Betty smiled at the mite whose brown eyes sparkled beneath a lustrous bang of glossy, black curls. “Merry Christmas,” she told the girl, including the whole table in her smile.

“You look beautiful, Betty,” FP told her as she approached their table and took the seat beside Jughead’s. She felt herself blushing again, and fought against her automatic urge to disagree with him. Maybe it was vain of her, but she _felt_ beautiful… beautiful and sexy and even a little daring, despite that fact that her outfit fell well within the prison’s rather stringent dress code for visitors. The neckline of her jersey dress skimmed just below her collarbones, the sleeves ended below her elbows, and the hem of its generously flared skirt hit the middle of her knees. It was entirely, incontestably modest.

It was also, however, a rich, deep, tomato red, a colour she’d yearned to wear – especially at Christmastime – since she was a little girl… a colour that was going to give her mother fits in just a few hours.

“Red is for harlots, Betty,” Alice Cooper had bitten out precisely, anytime Betty had dared to beg for a red dress… or sweater… or even a hair bow, going back as far as Betty should remember. “And you are not going to dress like a harlot; not while _I_ live and breathe.” And so, Betty had worn green Christmas after Christmas, and pastels or neutrals on all other occasions.

Until this morning, when Jughead – who apparently remembered every single thing she’d ever told him, or poured out into her diaries – had given her this gorgeous dress of her dreams, that fit like a dream and felt like a dream. He swore he’d found it at the jumble sale, although she could hardly believe that. He’d given her other clothes, too: a faded pair of jeans that sat low on her hips, baggy and boyish and more comfortable than she’d known jeans could be, along with a veritable bouquet of t-shirts, soft with many washings, featuring novelty slogans or punk bands of the 1990s that they’d listened to when their phones were charging at the trailer and they’d delved into FP’s CD collection.

“I thought maybe you could keep them at the trailer,” he’d told her sheepishly, not quite meeting her eyes, as if he were someone embarrassed or unsure, “you know… in case sometimes you want to just… be Betty, instead of dressing the part of Alice Cooper's daughter.”

She hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry at that – to laugh at the suggestion that she’d _ever_ choose to dress as her mother’s daughter, or to cry at his recognition that the clothes she wore every day were just a costume, and his decision to offer her a choice. She’d been struck again with the realization that he really _did_ see more in her than just the image Alice had so carefully curated, a realization that devastated and elated her equally every time that it dawned on her. So, in the end, she’d neither laughed nor cried. She’d just kissed him, deeply and soulfully, ignoring the gagging noises Brandon made as he passed through on his way to the kitchen, and then stroked her fingers again over the buttery soft leather of Jughead’s final gift to her: a journal that she’d never have believed was second-hand, if he hadn’t shown her where he’d carefully cut away that pages that had already been written on.

“Thanks Mr… uh, _FP_ ,” she corrected herself, bringing her attention back to the present and earning a smile of approval. “If I do, it’s because of the dress Juggie gave me for Christmas.”

“It’s because of the girl _wearing_ the dress,” Jughead corrected her firmly, and she got a little lost in the intensity of his gaze.

“A _hem_ ,” FP coughed pointedly.

“ _Presents_!” Betty said brightly, clapping her hands as she forced her eyes back to FP’s face. “You’ve got work to do, FP!”

FP was blushing again, only this time, he looked genuinely uncomfortable, and for a moment, Betty’s happiness faltered.

“I… uh…” FP hesitated.

“Do you mean to tell me that, with all the _fabulous_ shopping amenities at your disposal, you didn’t pop out and ransack the malls?” Jughead interjected in accents of mock horror and, abruptly, Betty understood. FP was uncomfortable receiving gifts, when he had none to give, and she cringed inwardly. She’d only meant to brighten the day, to add a little cheerful variety to what she knew to be the almost endless monotony of his life in prison. And now she’d hurt a man she held in genuine affection.

She felt a hot, familiar rush of shame edged with panic… panic that she’d ruined everything… that Jughead and FP would hate her now… that her awkwardness would make everyone leave her and she’d be alone, relentlessly alone…

Her ears were ringing and she’d lost the thread of the conversation, had lost touch with her own body, hadn’t even been aware of her own clenched fists, of the grooves – deep, but not yet bleeding – in her palms, until Jughead took her hands under the table and began to gently stroke the back of her wrists, just a slow, rhythmic pattern that gradually brought her awareness back, gave her a choice to consciously open her hands, to smooth them over the silky fabric of her dress.

“… I know presents are kind of breaking with Jones Christmas tradition,” Jughead was telling his father with a slight edge to his tone, “but Betty and I are trying something new this year.” Betty’s eyes stung with tears, and she wasn’t even sure if they were tears of relief that the difficult moment seemed to have mostly passed (although Jughead’s tone wasn’t promising), or tears of pain now that she was aware again of the sensations in her hands.

“Well, different can be good,” FP said, obviously willing to do his part to move back towards a festive mood at the table.

“So I’m discovering,” Jughead muttered, and this time, the edge in his voice was impossible to miss.” Betty shifted uncomfortably in her folding metal chair, unsure how to alleviate the new and different kind of tension that was suddenly at the table, as FP looked stunned for a moment. It was only a moment, though, and then he visibly squared his shoulders, as if determined to do his part to recapture the happiness of their greeting.

“Well, then, let’s do this,” he said, rubbing his hands together as if he were nothing but eager to open his gifts. “I can’t _remember_ the last time I opened a present,” he added almost absently. Betty was slightly startled to realize he wasn’t joking, and filed that away to discuss with Jughead in a less fraught moment.

She watched anxiously as FP opened the gifts she’d wrapped in such a hurry, clinging to Jughead’s hand beneath the table for reassurance as she battled her usual terror that she’d gotten it wrong somehow, that her gifts would disappoint or offend. Meanwhile, FP – his embarrassment now forgotten – showed an almost childlike, and unmistakably sincere, delight in her choices: a subscription to _Rolling Stone_ , and another to _Smith Journal_ , both subscription cards neatly taped to the covers of the current editions; a copy of _The More of Less_ , a book that had somehow felt appropriate for a man whose entire life had been stripped away, and whose personal possessions were currently limited to what he could keep on his side of a 6 x 8’ prison cell; and, the last gift, a framed snapshot of FP, Jughead and Betty, taken the night of Homecoming. She’d wanted to use a picture she’d taken of just FP and Jughead together that night, but Jughead had insisted on using the selfie they’d taken together in front of the Cooper home, just before getting into FP’s truck – the same truck that was currently parked outside, to all intents and purposes Jughead’s now – to drive to the dance. 

Looking at the picture now, in these surroundings, Betty was struck at the contrast. Their pictured smiles looked so real, so simple and uncomplicated, smiles captured in the last minutes before everything got so hard and confusing… before talk of Toledo… before evidence tampering and FP’s arrest… before Archie – now in Chicago, doing God-knew-what – and Veronica tricked Betty and Jughead so they could search the trailer, betraying their friendship and saving the day at the same time… Betty found herself tearing up as she looked at the picture; she wasn’t surprised to see that FP was looking a little misty himself.

Jughead, though, seemed to be on another page altogether. His expression was neutral – so neutral, in fact, that she knew he was working at it – but his jaw was clenched, and although he still held her hand, his gentle, rhythmic stroking of her wrist had ceased. His hand simply lay in hers, inert and somehow remote.

“This is…” FP’s voice was husky, and he cleared his throat a couple of times before he continued. “This is the best of all. All of it’s amazing – you have no idea how good it will be to read something new – but _this_?” He waved the photo at them. His voice had broken on the last word, and it was a minute before he could go on. “This is _everything_ ,” he said at last.

There wasn’t much time left in the visit after that. Even on Christmas Day, visiting hours were strictly limited… as was Alice Cooper’s patience with tardiness; they had a schedule to keep. They ate some cookies and thumbed through the magazines. A few minutes before they had to leave, Betty excused herself, partly to give Jughead and FP a few minutes of privacy – to the extent that “privacy” was a working concept in a prison – and partly so that she could sit and share a cookie with the little girl she’d spotted earlier, cuddling her and singing her Christmas songs so that mite’s parents could exchange tearful, whispered confidences across their table.

When the guards overseeing the visitors’ room gave a 5-minute warning, she returned the child to her parents, pausing to tell the mother, “You’re taking the rest of the cookies home with you; the guards already know,” a comment that led the tiny girl to squeal in delight, before returning to say her goodbyes to FP.

“Merry Christmas again, Mr… uh, _FP_ ,” she told him, pecking his cheek again. She was surprised when he stood and wrapped her in a warm hug.

“It really is, Betty,” he told her with a sincerity that seemed incongruous in a man about to be ushered back into a cell. “One of the best.”

“ _Definitely_ the best,” Jughead agreed, standing abruptly and stepping away from the table. FP’s arms, already half-raised for a hug, fell awkwardly to his sides. “Who knew that Mom blowing town and Dad going to prison would turn out to be an improvement?”

Betty stared at him in shock, in part just because it was less painful than witnessing the look of shamed resignation that had come over FP’s features at Jughead’s harsh words and steely tone. She simply couldn’t process such cruelty coming from Jughead… the warm, gentle man who was always so tender with her.

“See you later, FP,” Jughead flung out over his shoulder as he turned on his heel and headed towards the door without a backwards look.

Betty stared after him another moment, then turned back to FP helplessly. She opened her mouth to say… something… _anything_ , to smooth over the situation, but for once, no words occurred to her and, after a painful moment, she closed her mouth again.

“It’s okay, Betty,” FP told her quietly, and the compassion in his eyes and his tone reminded her of Jughead… the Jughead she knew... the one who put her back together, again and again. “You don’t have to make this any better. He’s pissed at me. I know it… and I know that I deserve it. I’ve earned it… have let him down, over and over again, his whole life.

“It’s true, what he says: this is the nicest Christmas we’ve ever spent together, and we’re spending it in a prison. If that doesn’t tell you what a shit parent I’ve been, nothing will. Jughead’s finally getting a glimpse of what it’s like to be happy… and he’s noticing it, because it’s never happened before. Literally, the best thing I’ve ever done for him is to get thrown in prison, so he gets a shot at a better family. That’s why he hates me.”

This time, Betty did have words. “No,” she told him, shaking her head even as she pulled him in for another hug, ignoring the guard who was trying to glare her to the exit. “That _isn't_ why. He hates you because he loves you so much.”


	77. Chapter 77

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two warnings apply here.
> 
> First, and most importantly, there is a reference in this chapter to parental abuse. If that's going to be hard for your to handle, please skip to the next chapter. I don't want to tag the whole 140K+ word fic because of one reference at this stage, but I also don't want to ambush anyone with content they're not prepared for.
> 
> Second, there's still some sad/dark Bughead going on in this chapter. Fluffier days lie ahead, but if you're purely here for the fluff, this is not the chapter for you.

### Chapter 77

It was almost midnight. Jughead had exchanged “goodnights” and final “merry Christmases” with the Fosters, had brushed his teeth and thrown a load of laundry, started earlier in the day, into the dryer. He was alone now in his room in the silent house, exhausted, but not even a little bit sleepy.

Settling back against the pillows in his temporary bed, in his temporary home, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and opened his history with Betty.

“In retrospect,” he texted her, “the prison actually *wasn’t* the low point of the day.”

He wasn’t even sure Betty would still be awake. She’d been glassy-eyed with fatigue most of the day… had fallen asleep on the drive to her parents’, in fact, only to wake in terrified tears mere moments later. She hadn’t mentioned it recently, but it seemed pretty obvious that she was still plagued by nightmares. It would be entirely unsurprising if she’d been in bed for a couple of hours by now.

But texting Betty -- even without an answer -- sounded like a lot more fun than sitting here, trying to draw a mental map of the emotional roller coaster his day had been… his best and his worst Christmas ever… Rockwellian perfection punctuated with recurring flashes of rage and despair.

His phone rang mere seconds after he’d hit “send,” and he knew without even looking who it was.

“Calling to contest my rankings of misery?” he asked as he picked up the phone, forgoing any more conventional greeting. Betty chuckled in response, but it sounded a little watery.

“Why contest the incontestable?” she answered his question with a question. “I am so, _so_ sorry that I dragged you into that mess, Jug.” She sounded serious, genuinely contrite, and Jughead hastened to dial back his teasing.

“You’re _sorry_?” he echoed. “For inviting me to Christmas dinner?”

“For inviting you to Christmas dinner _with my family_ , yes” Betty confirmed. “Crazy, toxic, and mean-spirited as they are.”

“They still fed me,” Jughead joked with a shrug he knew she couldn’t see, but could probably imagine anyway, “so why are you apologizing?”

“I’m apologizing because you were alternately ignored, abused, treated with profound suspicion, and made acutely uncomfortable, Jug,” Betty countered accurately. “You could have gotten a meal pretty much anywhere in Riverdale with much less grief.”

“True,” Jughead conceded. “But then I would have missed seeing Alice swallow her own lips at the sight of your dress. And you know I wouldn’t have missed _that_ for the world.”

Again, Betty’s laugh sounded shaky. “Did you manage to spirit it away safely?” she asked him.

“It’s hanging in the closet at the trailer as we speak,” he assured her. “But was the cloak and dagger extraction really necessary? Or were you just catering to my love of drama?”

After dinner, Betty had excused herself briefly. She’d come back downstairs a few minutes later, clad in flannel pajamas (mint green, with a pattern of tiny candy canes), and claiming she planned to retire as soon as Jughead left for the evening, pleading fatigue after a busy day. Jughead had assumed the wardrobe change was a simple tactic to de-escalate the situation, since Alice and Polly had been taking it in turns to snipe about her dress all evening. (‘Honestly, Betty,’ Polly had said with saccharine sweetness over dessert, ‘you’ll still get _plenty_ of attention after the twins are born; you don’t have to go to such extremes to make yourself…’ she’d flicked her eyes critically over Betty and her dress, ‘ _conspicuous_.’) But his phone had vibrated in his pocket almost simultaneously with Betty’s return, and she’d stared at him so pointedly that he’d pulled it out immediately to check the message.

‘Waiting to hear from Jellybean,’ he’d grunted not-quite-apologetically, checking the screen with full knowledge that neither Jellybean nor his mom currently had a cell phone to text from.

‘Grab the bag from under my window on your way out,’ Betty’s message had read and, sure enough, when he’d parked around the corner and jogged back, he’d found a plastic bag, the controversial dress unceremoniously jammed into it, lying in the snow within the pool of light below Betty’s window.

He’d thought she was at least half joking, at the time, but he knew she loved the dress, and leaving it in the snow had seemed like a really bad idea. So he’d gathered it up, driven to the trailer, and hung it in the closet, if only to ensure he got to see her wearing it again. Modest or not, that dress on Betty took his breath away.

This time, Betty’s laugh sounded more genuine. “I’m _always_ catering to your love of drama, Jug,” she told him. “But you hadn’t been gone five minutes before she was ransacking my room looking for the dress,” she confirmed.

“Seriously?” Jughead rolled his eyes in disbelief, even though he knew Betty couldn’t see him. “To do what?”

“Burn it,” Betty told him, and he laughed out loud. “No, really,” she told him. “She said it was going directly onto the fire, as would any other ‘harlot-hued trash’ I brought into her house.”

“ _Seriously_?” Jughead repeated more forcefully, this time without even a trace of humour. “What kind of person burns another person’s clothes, just because they don’t like the _colour_?” It would have been a ludicrous reaction even if the dress had been objectionable in some way… covered in profanities, or more revealing than her parents approved of for her age. In such a situation, he could concede that a discussion might be appropriate. But incineration seemed implausibly extreme, even for Alice Cooper. Not to mention, of course, that the dress was decidedly _not_ objectionable or inappropriate, no matter how sexy he found Betty in it. It was both classic and lovely, if rather more conservative in style than current fashion dictated. It had been screened and approved for visiting at an all-male prison, for goodness sakes, which was pretty much the gold standard for modesty.

“My mother,” Betty said simply and unanswerably, and there was a lull in their conversation.

After a minute or two, though, another thought occurred to Jughead, and he felt the corner of his mouth tugging upwards again involuntarily. “So how’d it go when she didn’t find it?” he asked. He’d honestly have paid for a ticket to see Alice’s impotent rage at having her will thwarted.

“Not well,” Betty answered… which he’d expected. But her tone set off warning bells and short-circuited his mirth. It was too flat, too terse. She wasn’t relishing her triumph; she sounded downright grim.

“What happened?” he asked sharply.

“It didn’t go well,” Betty repeated, and Jughead’s concern ratcheted up a notch. The tremor was gone from her voice… as was all natural warmth or colour. She didn’t sound angry or upset; she sounded… neutral. With some people, that might have been reassuring. But since Betty was about the _least_ neutral person Jughead knew – she cared passionately about _everything_ , from her studies to the school newspaper to her family to this hopeless, nowhere town – that meant she was hiding something behind that carefully even tone.

“Describe the scene for me,” he requested. Maybe an appeal to the writer and editor in Betty would elicit more detail than a direct question.

“I’d gone upstairs as soon as you left,” Betty began, still in that carefully neutral tone. “The overhead light was turned off, but the lamp on my nightstand was on.” He’d seen her room like that, knew how warm it looked in the soft glow that focused on her bed and faded off towards shadow at the edges of the room. “Mom knocked on the door… three sharp taps, the way she knocks when she’s furious. She didn’t wait for me to open it, though. I didn’t even have time to get off the bed before she marched right in. Polly was there, too,” she added almost inconsequentially, and Jughead felt another little crack in his heart. Betty had always adored Polly. He’d never had a chance to see whether the feeling was reciprocated, so he had no idea whether tonight was typical, or an aberration. But he’d spent several hours tonight watching Polly mirror back her mother’s attitude and mannerisms flawlessly. The only difference was, while Betty seemed to have the armour of familiarity against her mother’s barbs, she was all-too-obviously vulnerable to Polly’s jibes, her body recoiling from each verbal jab as if it had been a physical punch. 

“She didn’t come in though,” Betty resumed her narrative. “Polly, I mean. She just stood in the hallway, rubbing her belly and… smiling at me. The light from the hall made her hair look like a halo, and she just stood there looking… angelic and smug and superior.” She trailed off for a moment.

“But Mom marched right in,” she continued at last. “She stood at the foot of my bed and looked down her nose at me and said, ‘We are not going to have a scene, Elizabeth. Give me that dress, and once I’ve burned it, we can put all this behind us.”

“And when you didn’t give it to her?” Jughead asked.

Betty sighed. “She went through my closet, once piece at a time. She grabbed each item, shook it out to make sure nothing was hidden inside, and then threw it on the floor. Clothes, then hanger. Clothes, then hanger. Until it was one, tangled pile on the floor of the closet. By then, she was _furious_ she hadn’t found it. So she pulled every drawer out of my dresser, dumped it out, and threw it aside while she kicked through the clothes to make sure the dress wasn’t there.”

“And then?” he prompted her, sure, somehow, that they hadn’t reached the end of the story.

“Does it matter, Jug?” she asked almost angrily, her voice strung tight.

“It must, or you wouldn’t be trying so hard to hide it from me,” he told her as gently as he could through the tension he was feeling and the anticipatory anger that was already pounding in the beat of his blood.

Betty gave a funny, hollow, little sound, but Jughead just waited. “Then she pulled the covers off my bed,” she continued flatly at last, “and threw them on the floor. Then the mattress. Then she just kind of… swept everything off my dressing table. A couple of china figures were left after the first pass, so she grabbed those and threw them at the wall.”

“She thought the dress was hidden by the knickknacks on your dressing table?” Jughead asked her incredulously, and Betty almost-laughed.

“No,” she told him. “At that point, she wasn’t even looking for the dress anymore. She was just trashing the place because she couldn’t find it.”

“So then she gave up?” Jughead probed when she didn’t continue, alarm bells sounding more loudly now, somewhere in his mind.

“Pretty much,” Betty hedged, and he bit back an exclamation of frustration.

“Except?” he prompted, keeping a tight rein on his own temper. It was Alice he was angry with, after all. There was no reason to take it out on Betty.

“Except she grabbed me first,” Betty said as if it were nothing, routine. “She shook me a bit, and demanded I tell her where I’d hidden it.”

“She _shook_ you?” Jughead expected his own voice to sound shrill with disbelief, but through the deafening roar of his own rage, he could hear that his tone was blankly uncomprehending instead.

“It wasn’t that bad, Juggie,” she soothed him. “And she won’t be pounding on your door looking for the dress, either,” she added as if she thought that was somehow reassuring… as if that weren’t the absolute _last_ thing on his mind… as if he wouldn’t have freaking _loved_ to have Alice come banging on his door right now, so he could tell her exactly what he thought of her and her parenting and her smug, sneering attitude. “I told her Veronica and Smithers picked it up.”

That was so unexpected, it took Jughead a moment to process it, blinking rapidly as he tried to take it in. Even after he did, it was a full minute before he could frame a reply, and when he _did_ , it wasn’t one of his best.

“ _Why_?” he demanded incredulously.

Betty laughed at his reaction and, improbably, she sounded genuinely light-hearted for the first time since they’d gotten back into his truck for the drive home from the prison. “First, because if she knew _you_ had it, she’d ransack the trailer and bully the Fosters and make everything miserable for _all_ of you until she got hold of the dress and trashed it. She’d probably put a stop to my going over there on weekends, too.

“And second, because Mom _hates_ Veronica, and she _hates_ Hermione and Hiram, and yet they’re everything she aspires to be. She’s totally intimidated by them and their money,” she told him in the closest thing to her natural tone that he’d heard all evening. “She’d be absolutely terrified to go over there and demand the dress back. And even if she _did_? I seriously doubt Smithers would even let her past the lobby.

“And she _knew_ it, too. For once in my life, _I_ outmaneuvered _her_ , and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it, and the look on her face…” Betty laughed again reminiscently. “It was priceless!”

Jughead had to admit, it sounded amazing. “A proud moment, then,” he summarized with a grin, finally relaxing.

“Glorious,” Betty agreed. “Until she slapped me,” she added almost as an afterthought.

Jughead was silent for a moment, waiting for the punchline, until he realized none was coming… realized she was serious.

“She _WHAT_?” he roared in disbelief, no longer caring if he woke Bruce and Molly, knowing beyond a doubt that _this_ was what Betty had been hiding from him, almost from the beginning of this conversation.

“ _Shhhhh_ …” she chided him over the phone.

“She hit you?” he asked, still much too loudly for the hour.

“ _Slapped_ me,” Betty corrected him, as if that somehow made it okay.

“It’s the same thing,” he told her.

“It’s _not_ ,” Betty insisted, and he struggled briefly with urges to cry, and to drive back to the Coopers’ house and either cuddle or throttle her. “’Hitting’ is… bigger… more violent. This was just… petulant. It barely even left a mark.”

Jughead was aghast. “She left a mark on you?”

“ _Barely_ ,” Betty said again, sounding as if she wished she hadn’t brought it up. “A pink handprint that’s hardly even visible anymore. Maybe a small bruise near the jaw… _maybe_. I’ve had lots worse.”

“You’ve _what_?” he whispered, nauseated at the thought that this had happened before… that it was a pattern.

“Juggie, I’ve played sports my entire life. I was on Archie’s Little League team until the sixth grade. Remember the double black eyes I got just before summer vacation that year, when I forgot to slide into home?” She paused, as if expecting him to laugh at the recollection, but nothing seemed terribly funny to him at the moment. “I played rugby the year the school had a coach for it. I’ve even taken my share of bumps in River Vixens practices. I’ve been hurt _lots_ worse.”

“But not by her?” Jughead all but pleaded with her for reassurance. “Never by her?”

Betty laughed again, but this time, it had nothing to do with humour. It was a harsh, bitter sound… one he’d never have imagined she could make. “Oh, she’s hurt me before,” she acknowledged darkly. “She’s just never used her hands to do it.”

“Shit, Betty, what did she use?” Jughead asked, almost terrified to hear the answer. A belt? A ruler? What the hell had Alice Cooper been using to abuse her daughter, while posing as the perfect Stepford wife and mother?

“Her _words_ , Jug,” Betty said, and now the trembly note was back in her voice, reassuring and heartbreaking at the same time. “And her silences… her presence… her glares… She’s never hit me before, never laid a hand on me. But she’s hurt me far, far worse than she did tonight… practically every day of my life.” She laughed, and this time it was at least half a sob. “Honestly, Jug, I wish she’d hit me _more_ … if she’d belt me a good one once a day, and stop with the criticisms and the control, the manipulation and the mind games? I’d take that trade _any_ day.

It didn’t feel like there was much Jughead could say to that. It wasn’t a satisfactory answer; he wanted Betty to share his outrage at her mother’s violence… to press charges… to sue for emancipation… _something_ to show she understood how wrong that action was, how wrong it was for _anyone_ to lay hands on her in anger. At the same time, he knew Betty was the authority on her own pain, and he was horrified to think how grossly he’d underestimated her mother’s verbal abuse over the years. He’d been terrified of Alice Cooper throughout his childhood, of course, and remained uncomfortable in her presence to this day. And he’d always known she was hard on Betty… that the perfectionism Betty struggled with was nurtured and fed by her mother’s constant surveillance. But he’d never stopped to consider whether it was abuse… never imagined that it inflicted so much damage, that Betty would honestly prefer to be hit.

“You still there?” Betty asked him after a few minutes of heavy silence.

“Yeah,” he said, calling himself smartly to attention. “Yeah, just… processing.”

“I’m sorry,” Betty said, sounding as if she meant it, and he shook his head almost angrily. She was _sorry_? _She_ was sorry? Her mother hit her… as a result of provocation offered by _his_ Christmas gift to her, no less, and _she_ was _sorry_?

“Sorry for what?” he asked, unable to even imagine what she thought she was apologizing for.

“All of it,” she sighed. “Unloading on you like this. Dinner. My mother. Polly.”

“We’re not our parents,” he reminded her gently, echoes of an afternoon that felt so long ago. “Remember? All _you_ did was invite me to dinner. The rest of it… that’s on them, not on you.”

“I’m not my parents,” Betty repeated obediently, but she sounded dubious. “But I’m still accountable for who I pull into their undertow.”

Undertow.

The word stopped Jughead in his tracks, stole his breath, left him unable to speak for a moment, the Coopers and their shiny, suburban dysfunction forgotten.

Undertow. That was the feeling, the force he’d seen so plainly and so painfully this afternoon on the drive to visit FP. The invisible undercurrent, the incalculable weight of who he was, of what it meant to be a Jones in this town, was an inevitable force that would pull him away from the happiness that, on the surface, seemed so tantalizingly close. He could play at being a Foster; he could vacation in the reflected sunshine of Betty’s love; he could pretend this was his life. It all seemed to be within his grasp… for now.

But he was caught in a rip tide that was going to pull him away, as surely as the setting of the sun, and no amount of struggling was going to keep his head above the water. And if he tried to hang on too tightly, he’d drag the rest of them under with him.

“Jug? Are you okay?” Betty’s voice through his phone was concerned. He’d been silent too long.

“Yeah,” he said, too stunned with his own certainty to even try to explain what had just happened to him. “I’m just tired; I gotta go to sleep. Merry Christmas, Betts.”

“Merry Christmas, Juggie,” she told him. He barely heard the last syllable before he switched off the phone and fell back on his bed, sleep further than ever from his mind.


End file.
